


The Persistence of Memory

by Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)



Series: Morphology [9]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Eventual Sex, Fatherhood, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Stopped Killing, Hannibal is Hannibal, Kissing, Love Doesn't Fix Things Magically, Lusting for the Kill, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Resolved Sexual Tension, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<em>All your questions can be answered, if that is what you want. But once you learn your answers, you can never unlearn them.</em>”―Neil Gaiman, <em>American Gods</em></p><p>Will Graham struggles with the aftermath of "<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037699">Not To Die of the Truth</a>", attempting to put the pieces of his life back into some recognizable shape. Hannibal intends to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fifty-Three Days

Will shuddered into consciousness, choking off a scream as he lurched upright in the bed. He sucked in air, pulling frantically at the blankets he’d tangled himself up in, ensnared and panicked and…

He rolled out of the bed, stumbling into the dresser in the process, and had to scramble to keep the items scattered atop from crashing to the floor. Will clung to the piece of furniture, using it to ground himself as his eyes adjusted in the darkness, as he fought off the nightmarish sensations still clinging to him, sweat soaked clothing feeling like cold, wet hands attempting to pull him back under.

With his heart still hammering in his chest, he struggled out of his t-shirt, throwing it to the floor with the others, and tried to hold his breath so he could listen. And there it was, faint, but plaintive, the sound of an infant in distress.

He was at the door with his hand on the knob before his brain caught up to his body. Will stopped short, his head bowed against the door, body shaking. He banged his head against the wood—three or four light raps—before unclenching his hand and taking two steps back, working at his lower lip with his teeth.

Mischa’s crying had subsided, and Will understood this to mean that Hannibal had already reached her, was likely cradling her right now, soothing her with soft words, and gentle rocking. Will had to choke back a sob of his own because of the sudden jealousy that washed over him. Her innocence, her ignorance, allowed her to curl into spaces where Will once rested his own head in order to be comforted. It was so very difficult to accept that comfort when you knew what it was holding you.

Will pushed himself away from the door and wandered over to sit on the edge of the bed. This meant the end of sleep for the evening. Or morning. It mattered little, because the days and nights were simply bleeding into each other, and all of it felt like it had very little to do with him. Hours, days, those were things for normal people, people with lives. He was far from alive, he was a ghost haunting the room of Abigail Hobbs.

There were several mirrors in Abigail’s room, and all of them had been covered as best as Will could manage, because he had grown sick of scaring himself with his own reflection. Movement out of the corner of his eye in the wake of a nightmare had been enough to bring on a full panic attack, especially since he hardly recognized his own reflection.

To say he looked unwell would be a kindness. He looked, to his own way of thinking, when he could bring himself to look at all, like the type of person you crossed the street to avoid. His hair hadn’t been cut since before the Puppet Master case had begun and was matted, too long, and curling wildly. An unkempt beard had taken up residence on his face, but it did little to hide the gauntness. The eyes were the worst, sunken, wild, unable to stay focused on any one thing for very long. Looking into his own eyes scared him in ways he hadn’t expected, because he didn’t see himself looking back out from them.

Will understood he was reaching the end of his rope. Hannibal had been kind—and wasn’t that just hilarious—and allowed him his retreat, not pushing. Not yet. The _yet_ was like another person in the house, following him around as he tried to avoid any and all contact with the doctor. _Yet_ , because Hannibal would only be able to restrain himself for so long before he had to intervene, if only to keep Will alive.

He hadn’t left the house since the funeral. Worse still, he wasn’t exactly certain how long ago that had actually taken place. He tried not to leave the room at all, except for when he had to go to the bathroom, or when his hunger got the best of him.

Several times a day trays were left outside of the door for him, bedecked with clearly identifiable food items, their arrival heralded by Hannibal’s light knocking. Hannibal had quickly learned anything homecooked was going to be ignored, and had switched to prepackaged food items, usually leaving them still cocooned within in their plastic sheaths, because it improved Will’s chances of eating. Some small, petty part of Will enjoyed knowing how much Hannibal must have hated purchasing, let alone offering up, such paltry fair.

Sometimes, when he knew it was safe, such as when he could hear Hannibal playing the harpsichord for Mischa downstairs, Will would creep out of Abigail’s room, and grab fresh clothing, very seldom brave enough to risk a shower. Sometimes he would allow the dogs to swarm him, grant himself that small comfort of stroking and hugging, of having warmth and unconditional love showered upon him.

Mostly, though, he hid. He hid, and ached, and had nightmares, and lost himself in his own imagination, hour after excruciating hour. Trapped. Stranded between love and hate, with no clear understanding of how to step completely to one side of the line, just… stuck.

Abigail had promised him it would get easier, but that had been a lie, like everything else. It had only gotten harder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will blinked, shook his head. He’d lost track of where he was again, had drifted into a waking dream of nature, where the water was clear, and his only concerns were to cast, and cast again, line whipping out over cool waters. He had very little time to process, to try to come back to himself, before hands were on him, catching him under his arms in an attempt to wrench him to his feet. Instinctively, he fought back, struggling until his head snapped back, the slap to the cheek catching him entirely by surprise.

It helped to clear his head though, and as he came back to himself he realized Hannibal was in the room, was crouched over him, his face dark and unreadable. Will scurried back, trying to retreat further into the closet, while simultaneously trying to recall when he had decided to set up camp in the closet in the first place. He had the distinct feeling that another day has passed him by.

“This ends.”

Before Will could protest or attempt to escape, Hannibal had him up off of the ground, thrown over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and was marching out of Abigail’s room. Will struggled for a few moments, but his head was swimming, and he felt weak, and useless. There just didn’t seem to be any point, and so he let himself become dead weight. Hannibal would get his way—he always did—so there was no use in fighting it.

He wasn’t expecting to be taken into the bathroom, but had a better understanding of what was happening once he saw the tub was full. Hannibal had Mischa waiting, strapped into one of her little seats, where she seemed to be napping without a care in the world. If he’d still been talking to the doctor, he’d have commended him on his tactics; Will wouldn’t act out in front of the child.

Mischa gave him something to focus on, something to distract himself from the way his skin simultaneously crawled with revulsion at Hannibal’s touch, and cried out in joy, wanting more contact, begging him to just give up, and bury his face against the man’s chest.

More troubling was how different Mischa looked. Plumper, her features filling out, and there was decidedly more hair on her little head. Will wrestled his memory, trying to pin down how long it had actually been since he had seen her. He’d snuck out to watch her sleep in the beginning, but Hannibal was too often to be found wherever Mischa was, and so he had stopped.

Will shivered as Hannibal carefully lowered him until he could finally place his feet back on the ground. He wrapped his arms around himself, eyeing the stool Hannibal had placed in the center of the bathroom. When he glanced off to the side, he saw the grooming equipment laid out in a neat row, all precise angles as if they were surgical implements, and shuddered.

“Sit,” Hannibal ordered, and Will obeyed. “I’ll attempt to make this quick.”

Will closed his eyes, having to reopen them almost immediately as images began to swarm in the darkness behind his eyelids. He tried not to whimper pathetically as Hannibal began cutting away at his matted hair, large, dirty clumps falling to the floor around the stool.

It took a great deal of restraint on his part to keep from jerking away from the scissors. The sound was almost excruciating, made his stomach clench in protest, because it was far too easy to conjure visuals of Hannibal jamming them into unresisting flesh. The way the skin would break, the moment before the blood would flow, how it would spray, depending on where the scissors were thrust.

Hannibal’s physical presence was overwhelming. He smelled wonderfully familiar, and as much as he was concerned about vomiting on Hannibal’s expensive clothes just from being this close to him, Will was equally compelled to lunge forward, bury himself in that scent, in the warmth he could feel coming off of the other man’s body.

Will hated himself, because he still wanted Hannibal, was only just realizing that he missed him terribly. He hated himself, because when everything reached a level of pain he could no longer manage, he retreated into his memory of how Hannibal saw him, and wrapped himself in a cocoon of beauty and love. Love that felt impossible to accept, but equally impossible to ignore, to discard.

It was hard not to look, so he allowed himself sneaking glances. The curve of bone in Hannibal’s wrist. The bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. The veins in his exposed forearms, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair was longer, his face covered with several day’s growth of beard. His mouth…

Will had to look away, heart racing, stomach tied in knots. He wanted to bury his face in his hands, but his hair was still being cut, so he softened the focus of his eyes, tried to keep them locked on where he knew Mischa was seated, even though Hannibal’s body was currently blocking his view.

He shuddered as Hannibal ran fingers through his shorn hair, and hated his body for betraying him, for enjoying the touch, for wanting more. Hannibal seemed to take note of the reaction, and stopped, much to Will’s delight and dismay.

“Look up.”

Will closed his eyes, and did as was asked. Quick and precise, Hannibal cut away excess beard, until it was of a length suitable for using the electric razor. Perhaps he didn’t trust Will not to lunge into a traditional razor if one was held to his throat, even with Mischa there. It was probably wise, considering his behavior.

Even though he knew it was coming, the click and hum of the razor being turned on made his entire body jerk in response, and Hannibal gave him a moment to calm himself before proceeding. His face was tilted this way and that, until his beard was trimmed low and neat and tidy. He could feel his facial hair joining the others sticking to his skin, tickling, itchy.

The razor clicked off again, and Will allowed his eyes to open, ever so slightly. Hannibal was turned away from him, gathering a large brush with which to sweep away the excess hair, as best he could. Will ducked his head, focused on Mischa, and tried not to tremble as he was tended to.

“Stand,” Hannibal said softly, and Will stood.

Will waited, expecting the order to strip, but Hannibal was simply standing in front of him. Will’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the clenched fists at Hannibal’s sides, absorbing the unnatural rigidity in his posture, forgetting it a moment later when Hannibal’s arms snapped out, ensnaring him, pulling him close, and tight, and…

Oh, it was _wonderful_. Hannibal wrapped his arms around him, one large hand cradling the back of Will’s head, an arm tight around his waist, and Will allowed himself a moment to sink into it. To just relax the ever present tension in his body, until he was curled against Hannibal, gasping against the warm skin of Hannibal’s neck, trying to remember why he wanted to fight this, something so welcome, so comforting.

Somehow, Hannibal’s arms wound tighter, snakelike, wrapping him up, lifting him slightly off the ground, and he could feel the other man’s heart beating steadily, even though his breathing sounded labored. Will remembered how Hannibal saw him, understood how much he had been missed, even as images of Hannibal lifting a fork to his lips flared up behind Will’s eyes, causing him to shudder, and begin to attempt to push himself free.

He tried to ignore the sound Hannibal was unable to choke off as he finally let go, because it was far too human, and Will hated him for being capable of human feelings at all. Hated him for not simply being hateable. Hated himself, because he wanted to step back into the embrace, to comfort Hannibal, of all people.

Will stripped off his shirt, quickly stepped out of the boxers he was wearing, toed off his socks, and climbed into the tub. The water was still hot, and his muscles cried out in appreciation as he sank in, sliding beneath the surface for a blissful moment before he had to resurface in order to breathe.

“You haven’t eaten in two days,” Hannibal said, and Will was surprised by both what had been said, and by how raw Hannibal’s voice sounded.

He smoothed back his wet hair, allowing himself to be distracted by the feeling of the change in length. Time was a tricky thing, and this information made him uncomfortable. He hadn’t realized it had been that long since he’d eaten, and as if in betrayal his stomach took the opportunity to grumble loudly at him.

“If I make porridge, will you eat it?”

Will struggled against the words lodged in his throat, jaw tight and muscles working. Part of him wanted to reject the offer, if only for the pain it would cause Hannibal, but he was lightheaded, and actually hungry, which was an interesting change. Sitting in the bath was making it painfully obvious to him just how much weight he had lost since being attacked. He’d never had much bulk to speak of, but certainly there had a bit more muscle and fat to him back when he’d been amongst the living, taking meals regularly at Hannibal’s table.

He struggled with his thoughts for a moment, desperately attempting to steer them away from the dangerous territory of Hannibal’s table. Anything else would do, and although it wasn’t precisely a pleasant replacement, he settled on contemplating his most recent scar. He’d already found the souvenir of his stabbing and the surgery it necessitated to be ugly, but seeing it through the water, actually looking and _seeing_ it there in combination with the sickly outline of his ribcage was alarming.

Hearing the little cooing noise of Mischa fussing in her chair finally tipped Will towards the logical choice, and he gave a terse nod of acceptance. Hannibal snatched up Mischa, and Will’s spirits sank at the thought of her being whisked away so soon. He was surprised and relieved a moment later when Hannibal simply repositioned her so that she was directly within Will’s line of sight.

“Watch her,” was all he said as he left the bathroom, presumably to make the porridge.

So, Will watched her. After an eternity, Mischa’s eyes cracked open, and she began to watch back. It was strange, very strange, her eyes almost eerily blue, and infinitely questioning. He knew it was probably all in his mind, something he was projecting onto her, but...

“Are you giving me a dirty look?” he asked, voice rough and croaky and disbelieving.

She made a little noise, almost as if in confirmation. Or maybe it was because she didn’t recognize his voice, didn’t recognize him. A wave of panic washed over him, as he contemplated what would be required of him if she began sobbing. The panic was replaced with guilt, because _she didn’t recognize him_ —assuming babies could recognize anything at that age, and he had no idea if that was the case—simply because she’d seen him less than she’d seen Beverly, or Alana. Or even the mailman, possibly.

“Shit.”

Mischa’s face crumpled a bit, but the tears and shrieking he braced himself for did not materialize. She simply stared at him, and made him feel guilty, and awful, and neglectful. It occurred to him that he’d never actually held her. He’d been too scared when she was still in the hospital, and then too broken after… Hannibal.

Will sloshed in the tub until he was leaning over the edge, stretching one soggy finger in Mischa’s direction. “I’m sorry. I’m having a breakdown,” he whispered.

He wanted to believe the little grab she made for his finger was an acceptance of his apology, even if he didn’t deserve it.

Mischa made no sense to him, and terrified him for reasons he couldn’t quite put into words. There were all the normal fears, the ones he recognized from when Abigail was alive and pregnant, but there was so much more. She made some small, resilient part of him want to get better. Getting better really meant getting past what he now knew, getting to some point where he could either begin living, really living, with the decision he’d made, or grab her and try to run.

Will was many things, but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he’d be able to take this girl from Hannibal without the doctor coming after them. Even in his own current, destroyed state, if Hannibal decided to run, Will would give chase, would need to find him. _Them_. The fierceness with which this conviction flourished in his chest was absurd, considering they were within his reach, and he’d been hiding from them all this time. Shutting them out.

With a resigned sigh, Will washed himself perfunctorily, only taking his eyes off of Mischa while submerged, scared of something happening in the split second he looked away. He drained the tub, running the shower quickly to rinse off, keeping the curtain partially open so he could maintain his vigilance.

Hannibal reappeared with clean clothing, keeping his back to Will as he set the carefully folded items out. Before Will even had a chance to tense up, the man was already on his way out,  parting words simple. “Bring her downstairs with you when you’re done.”

And so he did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Porridge, an assortment of berries, and fresh squeezed orange juice awaited him at his former customary place at the kitchen table. Will’s grip tightened around the handle of Mischa’s little carrier, as unwanted memories of eating breakfast with Abigail washed over him. It left him feeling sad and hollowed out when he finally took his seat, placing Mischa on the table so he could continue to look at her.

Will felt like Hannibal was watching him, even though he was fussing over the dishes, and not even looking in their direction. It made Will’s skin crawl, even as he reminded himself that he had nothing to fear. Not by way of violence, anyhow. He had plenty to fear emotionally, psychologically. It was clear enough that Hannibal had decided he’d been wallowing for too long, and was going to force him back into the world, whether he was ready or not.

He tried not to inhale the porridge, but after the first two mouthfuls it was hard to resist just shoveling it into his empty stomach, and demanding seconds. Will managed, just, pausing to sip the juice, resenting that the food tasted good, that it was sunny and comfortably warm in the kitchen. It made it feel as if everything in the universe was functioning, and perfect, and lovely; everything except him.

As he watched Hannibal drying his hands, Will braced himself for a confrontation. He had to assume Hannibal had waited until after the food had been eaten out of practicality, so if Will stalked out of the room he’d at least be leaving on a full stomach.

“Fifty-three days.”

Will wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been waiting for Hannibal to say, but this wasn’t it. He had to run the number over in his mind several times, trying to puzzle out what it meant, until it clicked and he understood this to be the time since… Well, he wasn’t sure exactly where Hannibal’s count started. His began the morning he faced the truth about Hannibal, but Hannibal’s likely began when he brought Mischa home from the hospital. Or perhaps since Will had left the house, or left Abigail’s room. He was lacking in reference points, the time having just stretched out into infinity for him.

“I understand your reluctance to be in my presence,” Hannibal continued, “but you cannot continue to ignore Mischa.”

Will felt his stomach sink, partially from the guilt, but also because he hated that Hannibal was right. He’d had his chance to let Hannibal go, to lock him up, to kill him even, but had been unwilling to cut Hannibal from his life. Continuing his limbo-like existence wasn’t doing anyone any good, and he’d apparently missed at least fifty-three days that could have been spent getting to know their daughter.

And wasn’t that just a kick to the teeth? _Their daughter_.

“Fine.”

Will made himself look, and was pleased to see that Hannibal actually appeared to be surprised. Will had a feeling he hadn’t been expecting a response at all, let alone a verbal one. There was only a moment of triumph, though, before he was distracted by the changes he could see in Hannibal.

He looked exhausted, and a bit thinner, as if he had been fasting in solidarity with Will. He doubted that was the case, but still, the end result was the same. Seen in combination, the length of his hair and the growth of beard made him appear to be almost a different person entirely. Will had expected him to be tired—he was caring for an infant and a madman at the moment, after all—but the extent to which Hannibal looked worn down was alarming. Taking a risk, he met Hannibal’s eyes for a fleeting moment, sucking in a sharp breath and needing to refocus on Mischa almost immediately.

There was far too much pain and longing in those eyes, and Will disliked seeing it. He didn’t want to feel sorry for Hannibal; it wasn’t fair. When he looked at Hannibal while holding onto the understanding of the things he had done, he wanted to see a monster, and hated himself for being unable to do so. He could only see someone he loved in pain.

Will swallowed around the lump in his throat, and slowly unclenched his fists. He tried to ignore the way his hands were shaking as he undid the fasteners and buckles, and slowly, carefully lifted Mischa out of her seat.

It was surprising, the way she seemed to fit right against his shoulder, settling in with minimal fuss before dropping back into sleep. The warmth and relief welling up inside him was more surprising still, as he tucked his face against her and just breathed. Will closed his eyes, and allowed himself to sink back into memory, into sensation, back to a time when he was so very blissfully blinded by his love. He tried to hold onto that as he held onto Mischa.

“If you wish to minimize exposure, I can establish a schedule,” Hannibal said, and Will’s eyes fluttered open in confusion.

Carefully, he shifted Mischa’s weight, spoke quietly so as not to disturb her. “Not necessary.”

Will forced himself to meet Hannibal’s eyes again, and this time allowed himself to enjoy the discomfort he found there, just a little bit. He felt he had earned as much. This was tempered with recognition of the tentative hope he saw, of the relief Hannibal was obviously experiencing, of the love in the other man’s eyes at the sight of Will cradling Mischa in his arms.

“Very well, then. It seems we are in agreement.”

  
Will swallowed around the lump in his throat, almost choking on his own words. “So it would seem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the time away! I'm hoping we're back on a weekly schedule. Not entirely positive how long this one will be. Probably not almost 100,000 words, like NTDoTT *shifty eyes* For those of you in the mood for naughty times, sex will make an appearance, although it might take a bit, since Will is a little traumatized right now.
> 
> Do you need therapy after the season 2 finale? I sure as shit do. You're going to be reading it, actually, because I'm not sure how else I'm meant to survive the hiatus. Since this universe was created pre-season 2, there will be a lot of canon divergence. Don't be surprised if some things / themes still appear, though, only to play out differently due to the changes in Will and Hannibal.


	2. Convergent Boundaries

Hannibal frowned as he watched the man being led in, even as he noted with pride that his shoulders were squared, the tilt of his chin almost defiant. As predicted, there were several small scars visible, and Samuel’s nose bore the telltale tilt of one that had been broken. The modifications were rather charming by Hannibal’s way of thinking, souvenirs from their singular physical altercation. If anything, they added a bit of much needed character to the young man’s admittedly attractive features. The blackened eyes he currently wore were less appealing, although certainly reminiscent of the last time they had conversed face to face.

Somewhere a buzzer sounded jarringly, while elsewhere heavy metal doors slammed and caught; the song of cages being closed. Samuel settled into his seat behind the glass, manacled hands reaching for the receiver, and Hannibal took note of the bruises visible on his knuckles, made some assumptions regarding the other bruises likely hidden beneath the offensive orange of the prison jumpsuit.

Anderson cradled the phone carefully, bringing it as close as possible to ear and mouth without actually allowing the filthy object to touch more skin than necessary. Hannibal wrapped the receiver in his handkerchief, and did the same.

“Hello, Samuel.”

The young man smiled carefully so as not to reopen his split lip. “Dr. Lecter, how nice to see you, sir.” He shifted in his seat, trying but failing to hide signs of his discomfort. “Thank you very much for your correspondence.”

“While the bruises you wear offset the green of your eyes rather fetchingly, I must say I am disappointed to see them.”

Samuel’s smile went a bit wobbly around the edges as he gave a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders. “There has been an… acclimation process.”

“I see. I must apologize for the tardiness of my visit.”

“Not at all, sir. I can’t… That you would be so kind as to take the time to write back to me is already more than I expected.” He stared unblinkingly through the glass, as if attempting to memorize Hannibal’s features. “I wish there was something I could provide in return for your courtesy.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.” Hannibal’s head tilted slightly to the side as he studied Anderson. “Are you being harmed, Samuel?”

His eyes shifted in the direction of the guards before refocusing on Hannibal. “Certain... doors... ones I’d hoped were closed for good, they seem to have been rather forcefully reopened.”

“That is most unfortunate. Have there been repercussions?”

Samuel shifted again, clearly uncomfortable with the direction their conversation had taken. “Ah.” He exhaled sharply, and after a rather lengthy silence seemed to have finally found words that he felt were safe enough to say. “I’ve provided someone with unfettered access in exchange for, uh, certain assurances.”

Hannibal’s frown deepened. He had been reticent to share Samuel Anderson with Chilton, but perhaps that option should be looked upon as an opportunity for amusement, rather than a hinderance. Frederick, always desperate for a high profile patient and the opportunity to publish, would require very little by way of prompting.

“Shall we set that aside?” Samuel nodded, relief rippling over his features. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology. I was never afforded the opportunity to pass your message along to Jacob.”

Hannibal pushed aside the distractions of the other visitors and inmates, allowed their conversations to form a melody in his mind, a pleasant accompaniment to the grief and anger blossoming in Samuel’s eyes. He would never wear his emotions as beautifully as Will, but it was a delightful performance nonetheless. Hannibal drank it in gluttonously, allowed the other man’s suffering to flood through him. The satisfaction he gained pooled darkly in the empty places he had been carrying inside his heart for what was beginning to feel like a lifetime.

“The letter you sent… there was no mention, but I’d hoped anyway. Crawford showed me photos. It doesn’t look like Jacob suffered.”

“More’s the pity.”

Samuel’s mouth twitched at the corners, and it was impossible to determine if he was fighting a frown or a smile. “Did Mr. Graham shoot him?”

“The F.B.I. has sharpshooters for such things.”

“It doesn’t matter. If I miss him, I don’t have far to look. I’m locked up with an endless supply of surrogates.” He lowered his eyes, nostrils flaring.

Hannibal allowed the silence to build between them, wondering how long it would be before Samuel adapted, and resumed his work. He was broken at the moment, but at some point he would find himself laying the groundwork, perhaps without an awareness of what he was setting in motion. Would he convince one of the inmates to retaliate on his behalf, to attack the man (or men) who had assaulted him? Would it only feel right if he found a collaborator? Would he simply plant the seeds of suicidal thoughts, and cultivate them slowly?

The opportunity for any such entertainment was contingent upon Samuel staying alive, both mentally and physically. As things stood now, Hannibal was not entirely comfortable with the odds. Under different circumstances, he would have been content to allow things to play out as they would, but this young killer had something he wanted. Trapped as he was by the constraints he’d placed upon himself, there were very few avenues of pleasure left open to him. Will would understand what he was doing, would likely disapprove, think of it as parasitical, but ultimately would not stand in Hannibal’s way.

“Do you miss him?” He already knew the answer to his question, but wanted to hear Samuel put it into words.

Samuel sighed, but raised his chin almost defiantely. “Every day. Sometimes it’s easier… if I imagine him here with me. I guess it doesn’t seem right to love him still, after what he did to Abigail, but...” he shrugged. “He was my life. I can’t just turn that off. I’ll always miss him, because I hate the idea of him being gone, and no one in the world being sad about it.”

Hannibal allowed himself an indulgence, wondering if circumstances had been different, if he had continued on as originally planned, would Will have felt the same?

The buzzer sounded again, and the energy in the room shifted in anticipation. “I’m afraid our time together is coming to an end.”

“I understand it may be an imposition, but I would be grateful for another opportunity to speak with you, sir,” Samuel said, eyes wide and pleading.

“It would be my pleasure,” Hannibal replied. “Perhaps the circumstances will be different when we see each other again.”

Samuel nodded, glanced off to the side as the guards began to head in his direction. “My kid…”

“You’re mistaken,” Hannibal insisted, voice sharp. “Abigail addressed issues of legal custody well before her death at your brother’s hands. My child is not an acceptable topic of conversation.”

Hannibal watched Samuel’s expression darken, hurt and loss and anger and possessiveness warring with his need to maintain contact with someone, anyone, on the outside. Samuel swallowed whatever words he had planned, and nodded tersely in agreement.

“Until next time,” Hannibal said.

He returned the receiver to its home, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket as he rose from his seat. On the other side of the glass, Samuel smiled gratefully before he was led away, refraining from looking over his shoulder as he went.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will was waiting in the entryway of their home when Hannibal returned, surrounded by the dogs, his eyes wide and watery, his relief visibly warring with anger. “Where were you?”

Hannibal managed to suppress any obvious signs of how pleased he was to see Will there waiting for him. It was worth reminding himself that just days before Will wasn’t speaking to him at all. While this was rather significant progress, it was almost unsettling to find him there, anxious and insistent, clearly unnecessarily concerned that he had been abandoned.

“You need never fear me sneaking off without you, Will,” he answered, blinking slowly as he watched a great amount of tension leave Will’s body upon hearing these words.

“I… I could have watched her,” Will finally managed, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “I wouldn’t do anything…”

Hannibal waved his hand dismissively, and Will stopped speaking. “Of course not.”

He held Mischa out to Will as if to prove a point, smiling despite himself as her chubby legs kicked in the air. Ahh, and to watch Will take her in his arms was nothing short of magnificent. The haunted expression eased out of his features, some of the fear subsiding as he held her to his chest, arms curled around her protectively. Hannibal suspected she was his life raft at the moment.

“My only concern was your physical well being,” Hannibal explained, closing the door and taking a moment to allow the dogs to greet him. “I doubt you’ve had much in the way of restorative sleep as of late.”

Will swallowed, his eyes squeezed shut as he cradled their child. “Next time, wake me.”

“If it pleases you.”

It took every bit of his self control to keep from invading Will’s personal space. Hannibal was desperate for the other man, wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around them both, press his lips to Will’s brow just as he was doing to Mischa.

Sadness, familiar and unwanted, clutched at his heart and squeezed, and Hannibal made to continue on into their home, denying himself the contact, when he was stopped. He looked down, found Will’s hand pressed against his chest, fingers tensed as if he wished to grab a fistful of fabric, but was fighting off the urge.

Tentatively, Hannibal placed his hand atop Will’s, held it against his chest. The touch, whatever the intentions behind it, was unbelievably welcome. Hannibal imagined for a moment that Will’s hand pressed onward, through his clothes, through skin and bone, seeking until his fingers clutched victoriously at Hannibal’s heart, insistent and imperious.

Will made no move to end the physical contact, although his hand trembled where it was trapped beneath Hannibal’s own. He raised his eyes, allowed Hannibal to absorb and explore for a moment. “You shaved. And never answered my question. Where were you?”

Hannibal smiled softly, projecting. _Do you see how precious you are to me?_ he asked with his eyes. _Do you have any understanding of how I’ve missed you?_

As if in answer, Will’s face flushed, and he swayed closer. Hannibal wondered if he was even aware of the movement. Cautiously, he took hold of Will’s hand, brought it to his mouth, and placed a kiss against the center of his palm. Will’s fingers trembled against Hannibal’s cheek, and he closed his eyes before pulling his hand away, the pads of his fingers stroking the side of Hannibal’s face as he did so, even if he did turn his head aside as if ashamed.

Progress was progress, and Hannibal struggled to set aside his disappointment, let none of the pain he was feeling manifest in his voice when he finally answered Will’s question. “Visiting an acquaintance.”

Will’s eyes fluttered open, his brow furrowing as he curled his hand around the back of Mischa’s head. He studied Hannibal for a long moment, his eyes losing a bit of their focus. “Would this… acquaintance happen to be incarcerated?”

Hannibal nodded, then continued on his way into the kitchen with the groceries he’d procured on his way home. He smiled as he heard Will following, even if he sounded irritated when he finally spoke again.

“Why are you visiting Anderson?”

“He interests me.” Hannibal began removing items from the paper bags, putting them away with his usual efficiency.

“That’s your reason?” Will sounded a bit more like his old self, his tone confidently acerbic. He was following Hannibal around the kitchen, as if unable to stay still, having to resort to pacing once Hannibal finished with the groceries and began making tea.

“As good a reason as any. Am I to be denied this, as well?”

Ah, and there was the surprise he expected to see, followed closely by anger, and a flare of panic. Will licked his lips and looked away, bouncing Mischa in his arms as she began to fuss. Hannibal suspected she could feel the rising tension in the room and was responding accordingly.

“Did you take her with you?” The words trembled as they left his mouth, and Hannibal stopped what he was doing in order to give Will his full attention.

“Of course not. He will never see her, nor will I speak of her to him.” Hannibal reached out and stroked Mischa’s cheek. “Mischa is ours.”

Will pressed his lips into a thin line. “Good.”

“I intend to see Mr. Anderson relocated.”

“To the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, by any chance?” Hannibal tipped his head, and Will scowled, shifting Mischa around as if his arms were already tiring. “Well. Chilton will be pleased.”

“An unfortunate side effect.”

Will made a small noise that Hannibal took as laughter, but he kept his head down, body language telling a different story altogether, shoulders hunched and tense.

The exchange felt peculiar, but how could it not? The very nature of their relationship had been transformed. The man he was speaking with was not the same as the man he had been living with, sleeping with. They were beginning again, Will now fully informed, more of an equal, and in many ways it would require relearning each other. In the meantime, Hannibal would savour the simple fact that they were speaking at all.

Inside the confines of his memory palace, Hannibal had frequently allowed himself the luxury of hearing Will’s voice during the other man’s self-imposed exile. Sometimes his imaginary construct raged, the embodiment of betrayal, lashing out at Hannibal with words and fists until the doctor grew weary, and had to leash the rabid incarnation. At other times, Will was curious and accepting, encouraging Hannibal to guide him through room after room, show and tell at its finest. More often than not, his imaginary Will simply echoed back words already said.

_I don’t know how to live without you anymore._

_I can’t let you go._

_I need time._

When the urgency grew unbearable, and he could feel the animal that was his heart howling for him to kick in Abigail’s door and take back what was rightfully his, he only managed to stay his hand by focusing every bit of his skill on recalling the feeling of Will’s mouth against his own. The soft brush of lips, barely touching at first, until he heard the telltale hitch in Will’s breathing that invariably preceded him returning the kiss, lips parting slightly as his mouth moved against Hannibal’s. He would capture the beloved Cupid’s bow between his own lips, reveling in the rougher texture of Will’s beard, suck the lower lip into his mouth, sink his teeth carefully into the plump flesh. He could almost make himself feel the warmth that would be Will when he finally teased his tongue into Will’s mouth, the soft noises of pleasure he would make, that Hannibal would joyfully capture.

Hannibal could almost believe it would be good enough, that he could live off of memories alone while hoping someday Will would be ready to try again, but his chest ached with longing, and he knew it was foolish to believe he would ever be satisfied. He needed Will, all of him, and nothing less than _everything_ would do.

Those were the evenings he slammed shut the doors of his memory palace and eschewed sleep, choosing instead to sit by the side of Mischa’s crib, distract himself with the soft sounds she made as she breathed in the darkness. Sit there, and yearn, wondering what Will’s own imagination might be conjuring behind the closed door of Abigail’s room.

Now Will was here, speaking to him, _touching_ him. Pushing had clearly been necessary, likely unavoidable, and ultimately successful. The problem was, it was difficult to tell with this current incarnation of Will how far was too far, and so Hannibal decided to push further still.

“Have dinner with me this evening?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal watched as Will’s body went rigid. The question had obviously caught Will off guard. As he observed Will’s reaction, Hannibal cursed himself for intentionally walking through a tripwire. The instrument that was Will had been neglected, and required a delicate hand when tuning, or else the strings would break. Hannibal allowed his disappointment to wash through him, feeling, of all things, _foolish_.

Mischa made little noises of protest as the bouncing stopped and Will’s grip tightened, which spurred Will back into motion. He seemed at a loss, taking two steps in one direction as if to leave the room before spinning back around to face Hannibal. He stalked over, working to keep his eyes averted as he motioned for Hannibal to take Mischa.

Once she was safely within the confines of Hannibal’s arms, Will’s body trembled violently and he made a choking noise before covering his mouth with a shaking hand. Hannibal shifted Mischa’s weight in case he needed a hand free, and fought off his immediate inclination to reach for Will, who was now gasping for air, and breaking out in a sweat.

He was clearly having a panic attack, and Hannibal wondered how long he had been suffering from them. Will had seemed on the brink of one at the funereal, but Hannibal had hoped it was due to the circumstances. How many times had Will been trapped in the throes of terror while living in Abigail’s room?

“Ground yourself, Will.”

An almost heartbreaking smile tore its way across Will’s features, as he blinked rapidly and looked around the room. “2:36 p.m. I'm in my kitchen in Crownsville, Maryland. My name is Will Graham. Like that?”

He attempted to choke off a sob, failed, and pushed his way past Hannibal in order to hunch over the sink, retching several times, although he ultimately managed to keep everything down. As Hannibal watched, Will ran the water, splashing it onto his face even as he gasped for air, and shook, muttering curses under his breath.

Mischa began to cry, and out of habit Hannibal began speaking to her in a soothing voice, sweet nothings repeated over and over in French as he rubbed her back. Across from them, Will stopped cursing, and slid down to sit on the floor. He shook against the wood of the cabinets, arms wrapped around his knees as he watched Hannibal soothing the baby. As Mischa calmed, so did Will, his eyes wide and glassy as he forced his breathing back under control.

Hannibal continued long past the moment when Mischa was placated, as it was comfort by proxy, comfort presented in a way Will could allow himself to accept. The moment stretched on and on, Will gradually calming, his eyes regaining their focus as he allowed the fear to pass through him, and came out safely on the other side of it.

When he was finally able to, Will rose to stand on shaky legs, but instead of rushing out of the room as was expected, rounded on the doctor, who momentarily tensed in surprise to find Will pressed against his side. Hannibal shifted Mischa again so he could better pull Will into as much of an embrace as possible, squeezed his eyes shut, and _reveled_.

Will held onto him tightly, trembled against him for a glorious moment, before shifting to signify the end was near. It only lasted for approximately fourteen seconds, but it had happened by Will’s choosing, and Hannibal counted that as a victory.

“I’m comprised of convergent boundaries at the moment,” Will murmured by way of apology or explanation, taking several steps back. He was pale, his eyes wounded. A damp impression of him remained where he had pressed against Hannibal, causing part of Hannibal’s shirt to stick to his skin.

“Quakes are to be expected, then.” Unable to help himself, Hannibal cupped the side of Will’s face, stroked his cheek. “You can always come to me, Will.”

Slowly, Will wrapped his fingers around Hannibal’s wrist, pulled the hand away from his face. He held on for slightly longer than necessary before finally letting go, but kept his eyes lowered, hiding himself away.

“See, that’s difficult, considering you’re the cause.”

Will trailed a shaking hand across Mischa’s back as he walked away, weaving slightly as he left the kitchen. Hannibal watched him go, and reminded himself that transformation was never easy.

_I need time._

_I can’t let you go._

_I don’t know how to live without you anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, Will is talking again! Progress. Maybe not quite ready for dinner yet, Hannibal. Where's that famous patience? He was downstairs and even touched you! Sigh.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments last chapter! It is good to be back, and so many of you were so sweet and excited. <3 <3 <3 I couldn't wait, and posted a day early, but most of the time chapters will arrive on Saturday mornings.


	3. Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When company stops by unexpectedly, Will takes a page from Hannibal's book.

Abigail’s room no longer smelled of her, but Will still felt her in the spaces she no longer physically occupied. Sometimes, when his mind was being particularly kind, or particularly cruel depending on your point of view, she would appear to stretch out beside him on her bed, the two of them spending hours staring up at the ceiling together as he listened to the music on her iPod.

It was rare for Abigail to speak to him these days. He liked to think this was a sign of progress; whether good or bad was yet to be determined. The days of feeling her touch—cool and comforting and impossible—had also passed him by.

But he would turn and she would be there, trailing her non-existent fingers across the dusty surfaces in the room, disturbing nothing in her wake. He would open his eyes and find her standing there, staring out the window, frowning to herself while twisting strands of hair around her fingers.

At some point—he thought it was around when she had stopped speaking—he began to feel guilty when he found her waiting for him, even though he knew this Abigail was simply something his mind had conjured in self defense. It wasn’t as if he was really being haunted, that she was stuck between worlds because of him. She wasn’t _anything_ , because Jacob Anderson had erased Abigail from the world, leaving her neither at peace nor in pain, simply… absent. Despite knowing this, he still had to remind himself that he hadn’t trapped her right along with himself.

Today, her presence was especially unwelcome. Abigail’s eyes tracked his every movement through the relatively small space, head tilted in a manner eerily reminiscent of Hannibal when he sensed something caught in his web, something plump, struggling, and full of the blood his morbid fascination demanded.

Will exhaled shakingly and ran his hands over his face, beginning to pace, the walls suddenly too close, the ceiling too low. He’d already opened the windows, but that hadn’t helped the way he’d hoped it might. It was as if when Hannibal extracted him he had ruined the sanctity of the place, rendering it a prison instead of an…

“Asylum?” Abigail asked, blinking at him innocently, plucking the word from his mind.

He stopped moving, hating the way his body broke out in gooseflesh in response to the sound of her voice. “Sanctuary.”

She stared at him unblinkingly, and he struggled to remain silent, hoping she would do the same. Apparently she— _he, it was him, not Abigail_ —had other intentions.

“You like being a dad.” Abigail’s voice was haughty, and it sounded more like a proclamation than an observation.

“Don’t.”

She folded her arms across her chest, narrowing her eyes. “You’re just annoyed because Hannibal likes it, too. _And_ he’s good at it. Better at it.”

Will glared at her. Of course he was annoyed. It would be impossible for anyone knowing the truth to process the paradoxical state of affairs that was his life. Watching Hannibal Lecter patiently feeding, bathing, changing, and burping an infant, a look of tender adoration occupying his features all the while, was surreal. It was ludicrous to expect things to make sense to a sane person, let alone someone as unbalanced as he currently felt.

He gnawed on a cuticle absently, watching as the Abigail that was not Abigail held out her hands in order to examine her own fingernails, looking bored. “I would have been a good mom.”

“Stop it,” Will pleaded, even as Abigail protested, “Well, I would’ve!”

“You’d never have had the chance,” Will hissed, rounding on her. “He would have taken Mischa from you.” Will ran his hands through his hair, and found himself momentarily distracted when his fingers quickly slid through unimpeded. He was still expecting to encounter all the pieces Hannibal had cut away.

“He would have taken us.”

“Us? He _allowed_ your existence. Mischa was always his.” Will pressed his mouth into a thin line and shook his head. “You don’t understand him at all, Abigail. You never did.”

“I knew more than you think I did.”

He had to choke back his arguments. If he began screaming into an empty room about what his hallucinations did and did not know, it was a certainty that Hannibal would come upstairs to investigate.

Will hated when she defended him, because for every time it filled him with an anger so visceral that he feared spontaneous combustion, there would be a corresponding moment when he was tempted to allow himself to listen, to forgive, despite what he knew.

Unlike Abigail, he had seen through Hannibal’s eyes, could slip back there whenever it suited him, and tap into the tranquility of Hannibal’s worldview. Hannibal _had_ cared for Abigail, but not in ways she would have been able to understand, or ever find adequate. She was kept on hand because it pleased Hannibal to please Will.

Will knew that if he had died at the hands of Gary Buttram, Hannibal would have remained in the Baltimore area only long enough to exact his revenge. If that also allowed enough time for Abigail to give birth naturally, so be it, but if not? He would have retrieved the child by any means necessary, and then he would have taken Mischa, and started a new life somewhere else.

Without Will, Abigail was superfluous, which made it all the worse when she defended Hannibal, because she was _him_ , and _he_ knew this to be true, and so really a part of _him_ was defending… Will shook his head, tried to push everything aside, tried to find his way back to the stream. Casting in the stream.

“You could always go ask him how _he_ handled it.”

His entire body jerked in response, concentration ripped away, eyes snapping open to find her right in his face. “What? Handled what?”

“Being torn in half. That’s what you were thinking it felt like, right?” Abigail shrugged, and held up her hands as if in surrender when Will began to stagger away from her. “I’m guessing he feels torn, to. Maybe he can help?”

It was the carefully chosen word, the one he had tried hard not to allow himself to think, the one she had said with purpose, because it would make his heart race, his mouth water, and his hands tremble.

Torn, because he _was_ torn, because _Hannibal_ was torn, and because once Will had stood in the man’s shoes and had seen the truth and beauty in _tearing_ , in breaking something down to its component pieces. Because ever since then, he had been unable to prevent himself from living out the final moments of every victim of Hannibal’s that he knew of.

The first time it had happened, he’d thought nothing could be worse than experiencing that level of suffering while seeing the calm, pleasant smile on Hannibal’s face as he performed, his imagination kindly providing him with almost realistic physical pain as accompaniment. It wasn’t until the second time that he realized there was something worse; being subjected to it all over again whilst simultaneously feeling Hannibal’s pleasure.

 _Torn_.

Will had a hazy recollection of his hands clawing at the bedroom doorknob, but in the next moment he was outside, halfway through the backyard, his bare feet making their disapproval known as he ran for the trees with the dogs hot on his heels, yapping happily.

He stumbled in confusion, spun in a half circle before coming to an abrupt halt, chest heaving as he sought to catch his breath. He sank to the ground on shaking legs, the grass cool against his skin as he landed on his ass, exhausted and confused.

Will closed his eyes, sank back into the grass completely and allowed the dogs to greet him properly, reached for each of them in turn, buried his face in their fur and concentrated on his breathing. Their honest, uncompromised affection was the only thing currently keeping him from screaming in frustration.

“Will?”

He sat up fast enough that his head spun, thinking Abigail had followed him out of the house, prepared to beg her to leave him alone, but it was worse than that. It was Alana Bloom, and the words he’d prepared died in his throat.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she parroted.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the little furrow in Alana’s brow deepening as she looked him over. Will knew he looked awful, and was extremely grateful that he’d been wearing a t-shirt before fleeing the house as if it was on fire. Sitting there in his boxers was bad enough, but the thought of Alana also seeing the raised, twisted, and angry looking aftermath of his stabbing left him sick to his stomach.

Feeling self conscious, Will scrambled to his feet, absently petting the heads of the dogs as they continued to surge around him, pressing their noses eagerly against his palms. There was no way of knowing how long Alana had been there, what she had seen, so Will cautiously gestured at his lack of clothing, and shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we had company.”

Alana smiled, and if it looked a little forced, Will didn’t hold it against her. “I just got here,” she half turned, motioned to her car in the driveway. “I saw the dogs and was going to say ‘hi’ before heading in.”

Will attempted a smile, knew it fell short, only managing a bit of a twitching at the corners of his mouth. “And then you find me out here. In my underwear.”

He risked a quick look at her too bright eyes as Alana suppressed a more genuine smile. “It’s just good to see you. I was,” she stopped, looked around as if to make sure they were still alone, “I was getting worried. Hannibal…”

She shook her head as she trailed off, putting a hand up to halt Will, as if he had been trying to pry something out of her. Unable to help himself, he stepped a little closer, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial. “Hannibal _what_?”

“He’s very good at what he does, but,” Alana shrugged, looked up at him, no longer bothering to hide her concern, “he is unorthodox. He also has a huge blind spot where you’re concerned.” Will must have looked appropriately confused, prompting her to continue. “Everytime Beverly and I visited, and you were always sleeping, or…”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. Alana was observant, caring, and exceptional; of course she had grown suspicious and concerned by Hannibal’s continued excuses for why Will was absent. He wondered what her imagination had come up with, then had to fight down a little bubble of morbid laughter. However bad she’d imagined him to be, he doubted it even came close to the reality. Mourning Abigail, recovering from the Puppet Master case, and being stabbed, that would have been bad enough, without…

Will rubbed a hand against the nape of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. He chose his words carefully, sensing it was important to give the impression that he had only been hiding when company was over. “Sorry. Hannibal hated making excuses, but I didn’t give him much choice.”

A bit of the concern left Alana’s eyes, and Will realized that she’d actually become dubious of Hannibal’s ability to objectively care for Will’s mental health, enough that she’d been preparing to intervene. He suddenly sensed an ulterior motive for her visit, which now felt suspiciously like a social worker executing a surprise inspection. It made his heart race, as if she somehow had the power to take him from his home, lock him up.

Absurdly, he found himself grateful that Hannibal had cut his hair and trimmed his beard, because right now he needed anything that helped the illusion of normalcy. As bad as his current situation was, the thought of being institutionalized terrified him, absolutely and completely; there was always the chance they’d never let him out again.

Will thought of Hannibal’s person suit, of the way he carefully projected what others needed to see in him in order to accept Hannibal as one of their own. He’d been through the corridors of that anomalous mind, had seen both sides of the veil, and understood that if he wanted to, he could oh so carefully draw from this well of knowledge, wrap himself up safely behind a veil of his very own.

“I’m an asshole,” he said, conjuring a little a self deprecating smile. “It’s good to see you, Alana.”

This time, the smile reached her eyes, and he shoved his guilt roughly aside, tightened his grip on the imagined persona of Will Graham, fully functioning human.

“I’m sorry I just dropped by.” Alana was actually looking a bit guilty herself, which was a good sign.

“No, it’s good. I’m glad.” Will motioned towards the house, began walking that direction. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure,” Alana said, sounding pleased, and surprised, and still just a touch suspicious.

Will was proud of himself for not faltering as he walked through the backdoor to find Hannibal in the kitchen preparing a bottle for Mischa, ingredients for—Will had no idea what time it was and had to check the clock—lunch laid out on the counter around him. They locked eyes, and it was remarkably comforting to Will that no verbal explanation was needed. Hannibal understood what Will was requesting perfectly, and was prepared to play along, follow Will’s lead.

“Alana, what a pleasant surprise,” he said as she and the dogs entered a moment later.

As Hannibal exchanged pleasantries with Alana, Will moved through the room, trying to project “confident and comfortable in my own home,” reminding himself not to go too far overboard with his rendition of everything being fine.

He went straight for Mischa, scooping her up into his arms, not needing to fake his smile when she gurgled appreciatively. Pretending was going to be far easier if he was able to distract himself with her clean baby smell, and the haphazard smack of her little hands against his face.

“Do we have enough coffee for Alana?”

Will made himself meet Hannibal’s eyes again, took note of the approval there, even if the playful twinkle left him a bit uncomfortable. “Perhaps you should see to pants, while I tend to Alana?”

Will felt himself blush, decided it was best to let Alana see the embarrassment washing over him as well. “Probably a good idea,” he said, managing a chuckle. He pressed a kiss against Mischa’s cheek and offered her to Alana, who snatched the baby up with a wide smile, her voice high and affectionate as she said, “Hello, Mischa!”

Fully embracing his persona, Will made a slight detour on his way out of the kitchen in order to run a hand across the back of Hannibal’s broad shoulders, as if this was just another normal day for their little family.

Will made certain not to run up the stairs, forced himself not to look in the direction of Abigail’s room as he walked through the hallway. If she was watching him from the doorway with her knowing eyes he’d lose his grip.

He left the bedroom door open as he entered the room he and Hannibal had shared once upon a time, as if closing it might leave him somehow trapped inside. Everything was as he remembered, including the suit he’d peeled himself out of and haphazardly tossed over the back of a chair after returning from Abigail’s funeral.

The few times he’d snuck into their bedroom since that day he’d been so preoccupied by avoiding Hannibal that he hadn’t noticed, and wondered how on earth he had managed to miss something so obvious. In the pristine room, this remnant of Will stood out like a flashing neon sign, and he swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. Hannibal had been _mourning_ him.

Will felt compelled to clean up his mess, went so far as to get the jacket in his hands before he thought better of it, and dropped it back where he had found it. If he put them away Hannibal would read too much into the act, find it a cruel and unnecessary rejection.

He had a flash of Hannibal standing in the empty bedroom, staring at this messy little indicator of Will’s existence. With the doctor’s exceptional sense of smell, the clothes would still carry the lingering scent of the person he had reconstructed his entire life around. The sad, broken person hiding down the hall, lost in nightmares, having arguments with his own imagination.

The other oddity in the room was the broken mirror, the one Hannibal had punched in a “momentary lapse of control” while Will was in the hospital. The fractured reflection of his face seemed appropriate somehow, as he stared at the tiny flecks of long dried blood visible in the cracks. He’d expected it to have been repaired by now, but perhaps Hannibal had left it as a reminder, although Will wasn’t sure which of them was meant to be reminded.

After a long moment, Will came back to himself, remembered why he was there in the first place, and stripped. After tugging on clean boxers and jeans, Will faltered momentarily before deciding to trust his first impulse. The sweater was a bit large on him, but was comfortable and smelled faintly of Hannibal. It seemed appropriate for the production he was participating in, a little layer of armor to help remind him of the character he was playing.

What he hadn’t prepared himself for was Hannibal’s reaction upon seeing Will re-enter the kitchen wearing his sweater. For a moment, it seemed he forgot Alana was there, allowing an open look of hunger, of possessive love and longing to flare up in his eyes. That much Will had expected. It was the uncertainty coupled with the soft, wounded look that made Will’s heart race, and he had to shove his hands in his pockets for a moment to hide their shaking.

“I’ve prepared a plate for you,” Hannibal announced, his voice betraying none of what Will saw in his eyes.

Will took his customary seat without comment, and was surprised to see while Hannibal was presenting something exotic to Alana, what awaited Will was shockingly mundane. A sandwich. Tuna fish on rye, to be specific, with a rather pedestrian looking salad as accompaniment. While Hannibal was obviously taking advantage of Will’s charade in order to feed him, he had considerately chosen something easy for Will to accept.

Alana was having trouble holding back her laughter as Hannibal made what he felt was a necessary, miniscule adjustment to the plate in front of Will so that the angles of the pickles aligned up neatly with his cutlery. “I’m afraid Will’s surgery has left him temporarily unable to eat rich foods.”

Will tipped his head slightly in appreciation of Hannibal’s ready excuse. “He’s been humoring me with classic Americana fare.”

“Well, it’s still the prettiest tuna salad sandwich I’ve ever seen, Hannibal.” Alana’s eyes crinkled a bit at the corners as she smiled.

“Bon appétit,” Hannibal said, motioning for them to begin without him.

Will took a fortifying breath, then a rather large bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly as he watched Hannibal begin feeding Mischa. She still looked so small, cradled against Hannibal’s chest, hands slapping at the sides of the bottle.

This was something they hadn’t done together yet; he had been holding her whenever he had the chance, but Hannibal had been taking care of all of the practicalities of feeding, changing, bathing, comforting. While he could go a little longer avoiding the changings, Will thought he might enjoy giving her a bottle.

Will was still irritated over Hannibal feeling the need to leave her with someone else while visiting his ‘acquaintance,’ even if he understood he was currently a parent in name only. That he had yet to prove himself capable of caring for her was something safe to focus on rectifying. It had to be easier than dealing with hallucinations, and panic attacks.

Unable to help himself, Will reached out and grabbed one of Mischa’s kicking feet, giving it a little shake before returning to his food. He’d somehow already eaten the entire sandwich without realizing it, and noticed Alana watching him with a wry smile.

“I need to get back up to fighting weight before she starts crawling,” he joked, hoping she’d chalk the weight loss up to the aftermath of his injuries. He began working on his salad, proud of how steady his hands were.

“How are you feeling?”

Will shrugged, happy to have the food as an excuse not to speak right away. Hollowed out wouldn’t be an acceptable answer, nor would ripped to shreds. She wouldn’t have the context to understand why he was consumed by an unrelenting plague of self hatred, of jealousy for the Will Graham that had been able to live in blissful ignorance, of how he was driving himself crazy endlessly rethinking conversations and interactions, finding himself humiliated, because Hannibal hadn’t really attempted to hide anything from him in the least. He’d put it all in plain sight, allowing Will to jump through hoops of his own making in order to avoid seeing what was right there in front of him the whole time.

“I’ve been better,” he ultimately decided on, “but I’ve also been worse.”

“Will has made remarkable progress,” Hannibal added, and it was tempting to contradict him just for the sake of being petty.

Instead, he made himself meet Hannibal’s eyes, allowed himself to just… _feel_. For just a moment, for the sake of his persona, he closed the door on the painful truth. With it clawing somewhere in the back of his mind, wanting to be released, he gave the other half of his conflicted heart free reign.

He remembered the way his pulse had raced, how his heart had threatened to pound its way out of his chest the first time they had kissed. Hannibal had been shoved roughly against the ladder in his office, Will terrified that he had just done something undoable, had sent his life careening off course, but not caring. Not caring in the least, because Hannibal had kissed him back, harder even, almost desperate and unashamedly so. It had all seemed so simple at the time.

Will observed Hannibal, recognizing all the little changes that had taken place since that afternoon, and sat with the uncomfortable knowledge that somewhere along the line he had obtained real power over this man. It was a peculiar sensation, but some small part of him reveled in knowing that anytime he wanted to, he could reach across the vastness of the divide between them, and Hannibal would gladly accept whatever was offered. Even if it was less than he deserved, even if it hurt him to do so, he would still accept the scraps from Will’s table.

Hannibal shifted Mischa in his arms, the wounded look having returned in his eyes, and Will wondered how much of what he was thinking Hannibal had managed to suss out. Far too much, he suspected, and Will refocused his attention on Alana, who seemed curious about the sudden strange vibe in the room.

“Hannibal’s responsible for any progress I’ve made. I lucked out falling for a doctor, psychiatrist, and chef, all in one convenient package,” Will said, cutting through the silence.

He swallowed a mouthful of coffee while under the table—so Hannibal would know it had nothing to do with the bit of theater taking place in the kitchen—Will gave Hannibal’s thigh a comforting squeeze. When he dared look up again, he found the heartache in Hannibal’s eyes had been replaced with curiosity.

“Don’t forget nanny,” Alana added, and Will smiled amiably in response.

“Although I’m happy to be of service, it would be negligent of me to not suggest you return to John Hopkins for your long overdue follow up.”

Will felt a muscle in his face twitch, and fought off the sudden burst of irritated anger attempting to rise up and out of him. Hannibal was right, of course, especially since Will had never returned after checking himself out of the hospital against medical advice. He’d gone so far as to remove his own stitches, which in retrospect had probably been stupid.

Alana said his name as if he was a kid in trouble, and Will glared at Hannibal before refocusing on her. “I know, I’m an idiot,” he was surprised how calm he managed to sound, “but I can’t help thinking of it as where Abigail was murdered.”

That did the trick, and Alana’s sternness softened as she placed a comforting hand on his arm. He felt a bit ashamed, as Alana had been the first to see Abigail’s lifeless body at the hospital, had likely been feeling guilty for not managing to protect the girl somehow.

“Perhaps the key is to remind yourself it is where Mischa was born,” Hannibal suggested, and Will resigned himself to the fact that, like it or not, Hannibal was going to drag him in for the follow up.

“Fine. You two win,” he conceded.

Wanting to change the topic to something safer, Will opted for some slightly out of character social niceties, asked Alana how things were going, then settled back to listen while finishing his lunch. She caught him up on what he’d missed at work, which made him realize Hannibal or Jack must have made arrangements for someone to cover his lectures. This led to wondering who was handling Hannibal’s patients for him, and he made a mental note to ask.

Before he knew it, Mischa was down for her nap, and Alana was saying her goodbyes. Will had to fight off the strangest impulse to ask her to take him with her. Instead, he gave a little parting nod, closed the door behind him, and faced Hannibal.

“I don’t think she’s going to attempt to have me committed anytime soon.”

That he didn’t deny Alana’s intentions told Will all he needed to know. Hannibal simply cocked his head, blinked slowly. “I would never have allowed it.”

A strange, anticipatory nervousness washed over Will as Hannibal continued to study him, and he was suddenly all too aware of every inch of skin the sweater was in contact with. The fibers of the fabric seemed to shift against him with illicit intent, which was counterbalanced by the weight and warmth of the sweater feeling like a gentle embrace. He worried at his lower lip, made uncomfortable by the forgotten tingling sensation of arousal awakening within.

The problem was, even though Hannibal was maintaining a comfortable distance, Will could almost feel himself being pressed against the door by the other man’s desire. Could all too easily imagine Hannibal’s hands sliding up under the sweater, hungry for the feeling of Will’s skin against his palms, trying to touch him everywhere, mouth hot and insistent against Will’s own. All it would take was the slightest indication that the attention was welcomed…

Will shook his head, and swallowed around the lump in his throat, even as he peeled off the sweater and handed it to Hannibal. It was like physically removing the persona, and all at once the desire was purged from his system, leaving him cold and uncomfortable in his own body.

He kept his eyes averted as he trudged past Hannibal, heading upstairs for much needed solitude and his own clothing, trying to ignore the little stab of guilt as he went, knowing that if he turned to look he would find Hannibal with his face pressed to the sweater, fragrant and still warm from Will’s body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Alana! More importantly, hello sweater. I think every fannibal has a fetish involving Hannibal's red sweater. Am I wrong? Look deep into your heart and admit the sweater owns you. It owns us all. Also, you know Hannibal is missing Will if he's leaving dirty clothes draped over furniture. Sad (reformed) cannibal...
> 
> Hugs, kisses, and red sweaters to all the lovely people who have been sharing excitement over the return of Morphology. I love you all.


	4. A Natural State of Affairs

Will was beginning to regret his frustrated outburst regarding Hannibal’s reluctance to leave him alone with Mischa. To his credit, Hannibal had shown some measure of restraint leading up to the argument, even if he habitually stayed within shouting distance whenever Will was with Mischa, and tended to swoop in the minute she needed something beyond being held.

The logical part of Will’s mind understood Hannibal was only being practical. Will didn’t even have a full grasp of his triggers, and the strangest things could send him into a tailspin of panic. Just two days prior he’d lost it while putting food out for the dogs, the entire scene taking on a nightmarish quality, movements slowed, sounds amplified and distorted, as the eyes of his canine friends seeming to glint at him with malicious intent. It had taken six hours to work up the courage to seek them out again, only to find himself relieved and confused when nothing happened. Everything was just back to normal.

So, practically speaking, he agreed with Hannibal’s concerns. That didn’t stop it from rankling. Through no fault of her own, Mischa had become tangled up with the idea of recovery in Will’s head and heart. She was a little light teasing him into believing there was something waiting for him at the end of the tunnel. She was a sign post, a direction to aim for, a target.

He wanted to be a father to her. Someday he would stop forgetting this was the case, it could just be what he _was_ , a natural state of affairs, nothing at all like the off again on again parenting he was currently experiencing.

Will hated that he was still able to hide away for long stretches of time, desperate to forget everything, easily ignoring the reality of her. The safety net that was Hannibal allowed him the luxury of being a parent only in those moments most convenient to him, and it was wrong, he knew it was wrong, which was probably why he’d yelled about Hannibal’s lack of faith in him in the first place.

Mischa didn’t care about any of this, though, as she was busy screaming her head off. She was crying so hard he was worried she might actually injure herself, her face bright red, and screwed up in misery. Will could only guess she was devastated that Hannibal had left the house, that he had been rude enough to trust her care to this man she sometimes saw, and was occasionally held by.

Will had bounced her, begged her, tried to distract her, offered food, dared to check her diaper, but nothing was working. She simply cried louder, the dogs feeling the need to join in and make their disapproval of his parenting known to the entire neighborhood. He had no idea what to do, even as part of him was shamefully thinking that her distress as a very effective distraction from his own disturbing thoughts.

“Please, stop crying,” he asked for what felt like the thousandth time, attempting to rock her. When it failed, as everything had failed, he couldn’t help his petulance. Mischa would likely be comforted just by the timbre of Hannibal’s voice, the familiarity of his warmth, and scent.

“You never cry like this for him.”

Will eyed the clock and grimaced. Hannibal had only been gone an hour. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could handle the crying, but at the same time, the idea of Hannibal coming home and finding her in that state while under Will’s care was even worse. It would be months before he was given another chance to prove himself capable.

Setting her down in her crib for a moment, which naturally caused the shrieking to somehow impossibly increase, Will ran down the hall to grab his cell, only to find himself at a loss as to what to do with it once he had it. He couldn’t call Hannibal and admit defeat, he couldn’t call Alana, because he was pretending everything was fine with her… He made a decision, then held his breath as he waited for the call to go through.

“Will! Hey! How are you?”

“Beverly, are you busy?”

There was the sound of shuffling on the other end, and he heard Zeller somewhere in the distance, although he couldn’t make out what had been said. “Well, I’m at a crime scene, but… is that Mischa screaming? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Hannibal went out and… I know you and Alana have watched her once or twice, and I understand I should already know what to do but,” he trailed off, not sure how to ask for help.

“Damn it, Will, you had me worried there for a minute! I’m guessing you tried the usual stuff? Diaper, bottle, cuddling?”

“I’ve also tried begging.” He was immensely grateful that she sounded sympathetic and amused instead of judgemental.

“She likes being swaddled, did you try that?”

“Uh, no,” he admitted, “I’ll try.” He would have to Google ‘swaddling infants,’ was what he meant.

“You can also try the pacifier,” she suggested before covering the phone and shouting to Brian that she was not, in fact, talking about the Vin Diesel movie, “Seriously, Brian, why would anyone ever talk about that movie?”

Her voice became clearer as she took her hand away from the mouthpiece. Based on the noises in the background, it also sounded as if Beverly had walked somewhere quieter.

“Sorry about that, we’re dealing with familicide over here. It has us all a little tense, Brian’s just attempting to deal.”

Will swallowed and ran a hand over his face, trying to push aside thoughts of crime scenes, especially ones containing dead children, feeling panic beginning to creep in around the edges. “It’s fine.”

“So how are you?”

“About ready to try crying at Mischa to see how she likes it.” Beverly laughed on the other end of the line. “Look, can you do me a favor and not mention this to Alana?”

There was a thoughtful pause, and then, “Hm. Okay, but only if you promise to have lunch with me sometime in the next ten days.”

Will grimaced, thankful she couldn’t see his reaction. “You name the time and place,” he bluffed, “my schedule is kind of open these days.”

“Expect my call, Mr. Graham,” she teased, “now go handle that baby. Send me a victory pic once she’s chilled out.”

“Thanks, Bev.”

After some hasty Googling, Will headed back downstairs with a blanket and Mischa, deciding he needed to go all out with his attack. He knew Hannibal frequently played music for her, but since he wasn’t about to sit down and try his hand at the harpsichord, Will settled for the stereo. Once the room was alive with the sound of Chopin, he spread the blanket out on the floor and set to the task at hand, mouth pressed into a grim line of determination as he swaddled the infant.

Miraculously, she began to calm, the crying stuttering out and becoming whimpering, until it was finally more a hiccuping accompanied by a cranky face. Will realized he was holding his breath and let it all out in a whoosh of relief. Mischa stared up at him with watery, tired eyes, as the dogs crowded around her as if to provide backup.

“Thank fuck,” Will whispered, running a shaking hand through his hair.

Carefully, as if his very touch would send her off again, he stroked her cheek, rejoicing when all she did was make a little noise and wiggle a bit. After all the screaming and barking, the sound of piano playing in the background was like a soothing balm for his jangled nerves.

“You’re his little girl, aren’t you?” Will asked, feeling incredibly sad on the back of his accomplishment.

As he sat on the floor and watched Mischa begin to relax, Will came to a decision. He didn’t particularly like what he had to do, but it was necessary. Things simply couldn’t continue on as they had been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house was suspiciously quiet when Hannibal entered, and for a moment something reminiscent of fear fluttered within his chest. He shrugged out of his jacket, taking his time as he hung the garment, ears pricked up for an indication of where Mischa and Will might be. A quick reconnaissance of the first floor revealed naught but empty rooms, and uneasiness churned in the spaces between the beats of his heart.

On the second floor, the door to Abigail’s room was open, but the interior was dark, as was the nursery. For a single, heart stopping moment Hannibal wondered if Will had simply left with Mischa. He could have changed his mind, could have been waiting to be left alone with the child to make his escape, leaving the easily traceable car behind in the driveway.

Before his thoughts could carry him away, Hannibal finally took note of the lit state of their bedroom and headed that way, a ship in a storm drawn to the promise of the lighthouse. Upon arriving, he found himself stranded in the doorway, unable to proceed for fear of disturbing the scene before him.

Will was stretched out across their bed, mouth hanging open ever so slightly as he slept, the perpetual furrow of his brows smoothed by slumber. On her back beside him was Mischa, equally lost to dreams, ringed with pillows as if Will had worried she might roll out of the bed while they slept. The dogs occupied the remaining space on the bed, and seemed to be watching him with interest, equally unwilling to disturb the sleeping pair.

Hannibal took a cautious step into the room, stopped in his tracks when he took note of the empty chair where once Will’s clothes had hung. Involuntarily, his fists clenched at his sides, even as he consoled himself with the knowledge that the space Will currently occupied would hold the ghostly aftermath of him once he extracted himself again.

In that moment, the predominant wish of Hannibal’s aching heart was a simple one, made all the more painful for its simplicity; freedom to curl himself around Will’s exposed back, insinuate himself into this picture of familial normalcy. He considered being bold, of allowing himself to give in to the siren’s song and smash himself against the rocks of Will’s rejection, for surely contemptuousness would follow once Will woke to find Hannibal taking liberties.

There was no harm in imagining though, in closing his eyes and breathing deeply, summoning his most recent memory of sharing a bed with Will. He had smelled of medicine and healing wounds, but Will had welcomed Hannibal’s presence in the narrow hospital bed, had sighed contentedly when Hannibal curled around him.

Now, Will’s body was healed, even if his mind and heart swelled with loathing for Hannibal’s presence. Would that he could press his face to the nape of Will’s neck, breathe him in deeply. It was a sensitive spot on the man; they had this learned together one evening, Will squirming delightfully in Hannibal’s arms as he kissed and sucked and exhaled warmly, feeling gooseflesh break out beneath his lips, while Will shivered against him.

Even now, his body cried out in longing for Will, as it had never done for another. He’d always maintained a clinical distance in the act, when he’d deemed it necessary to experiment or manipulate in that way. Most of his life had been spent happily celibate, and he had never lamented the lack of a sex life—it simply paled in comparison to the wondrous highs of his art.

From the first, though, Will had stirred a dormant passion within his loins, had sent him into the most curious frenzy of _want_ , as if to remind him that, for all his efforts, he was still nothing more than a man. Hannibal was forced to realize he was but a fallible human with animalistic needs after all, and it had rankled, even as he had reveled in the priviledge of devouring in a different way, one that left Will’s body intact, a meal never able to be finished.

Once uncorked, there was nothing for it, and Will had drunk deeply, greedily of Hannibal’s passion. His rapacious appetite shouldn’t have surprised him in the least, as it had been the very same after he first began spilling blood, but Hannibal marveled regardless, at some point finding himself pleasantly in awe of his body’s yearning for Will.

Even now, with his heart twisted out of place in his chest by rejection, he thought longingly of the unrivaled bliss of glutting himself on the veritable feast of Will’s flesh, of slowly fucking him into the mattress until Will began begging for release. It had been far too long, and no memory held a candle to the experience itself.

The temptation had been painful enough with Will locked away in Abigail’s room, when his thoughts were consumed with the simple desire to look upon Will’s face. Since Will had emerged, it had grown worse, for Hannibal’s natural inclination was to reach for him, touch him, pull Will into an embrace and lament the time spent apart.

Hannibal felt, all things considered, he had behaved admirably well, operating against all of his natural inclinations in order to allow Will the time necessary to heal. But then Will had wrapped himself up like a present, pale and broken within the shell of a red sweater, as if to tease the caged beast that Hannibal Lecter had been reduced to. Had left him with nothing more than fading scent in fabric, and it was hard not to feel the sting of this.

Will knew him better than anyone, but reminding himself of the scorn did little to assuage Hannibal’s desires; he had taken himself in hand, nose buried in the sweater, wondering if behind the closed door of Abigail’s room Will was laughing in triumph. In the cold aftermath of his release, Hannibal thought it more likely that Will wasn’t thinking of him at all.

Now, here he was, a buffet for the senses spread across the bed they once shared, and Hannibal was at a loss to decipher Will’s intentions. He told himself Will hadn’t meant to fall asleep, that he’d planned to extract himself prior to Hannibal returning home. When he opened his eyes, they would be cold, unwilling to meet Hannibal’s own, and his heart would seize in disappointment.

Or, perhaps, it had been a calculated move, something done to remind him of all he had lost, an opportunity for Will to exact a modicum of revenge. The thought left Hannibal feeling poorly used, provoked. How had he become cast in the role of lovesick fool, a man who stands beside all that he desires, and counts himself lucky for his proximity?

With a little huff of displeasure, Hannibal stalked around to the other side of the bed, rearranging the pillows in order to afford himself a bit of space. He braced himself on one knee beside Mischa, and was grateful when she stirred, providing him with an excuse for intruding. As he reached for her, Will caught him around the wrist with loose fingers.

“What time is it?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

Hannibal found himself holding his breath as he met Will’s eyes, the fingers around his wrist tightening as the man began to wake, and wondered at how he was meant to interpret this interaction.

“Nearly five o’clock,” he answered, keeping his voice low.

Will stretched, his back creaking as he did so, fingers sliding from around Hannibal’s wrist in the process, leaving the skin tingling in the wake of his touch. Hannibal watched as Will shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, resting his other hand against Mischa’s tummy.

“How did it go?”

Carefully, as if too much movement might prompt Will to retreat, Hannibal settled himself onto the bed beside Mischa. “Frederick responded as expected. Certainly there will be red tape, but I suspect he’ll get his way.”

Hannibal studied Will’s face, wondering when the moment of rejection would arrive. “How was your afternoon with Mischa?”

Will made a noncommittal noise, but then surprised Hannibal by looking up, their eyes locking for a moment before Will’s gaze settled somewhere around Hannibal’s mouth. “She missed her dad.”

“You’re her father as well,” Hannibal reminded him.

“I haven’t been one, though.” There was no point in arguing with that truth, so Hannibal didn’t bother. “I need to change that.”

He remained silent as Will rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping his back to Hannibal and Mischa before he felt comfortable enough to continue. “I’m… Abigail’s room, that has to stop. Will you… I should probably start sleeping in here again.”

“Of course,” Hannibal answered in a rush, surprised to find his heart racing.

Suddenly, the removal of Will’s discarded clothing seemed to signify something else entirely, an indication of a true desire to move forward. That very evening he could find himself comforted by the symphony of Will’s breathing, of the quiet noises he often made while sleeping. Could remain awake to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It would also be akin to torment, being in such close proximity, his blood singing in his veins, Will within reach, but remaining forbidden fruit nonetheless. The tense line of Will’s shoulders informed him the evening would be difficult at best, each of them dressed and maintaining a careful distance. In this instance, too much too soon would send Will running scared, and Hannibal wasn’t sure how much more rejection his heart could suffer through.

“I shall, naturally, be respectful of your need for personal space, if you decide to return.”

Will’s head dipped a bit in acknowledgement of the offer before he rose up, squaring his shoulders as if facing a firing squad. “I keep seeing Abigail, when I’m in there,” he said softly, one side of his mouth ticking up in a grimace. “I know it isn’t her,” he added.

“Does Abigail speak to you, Will?”

He watched Will swallow, and wondered if he would answer the question.

“Yes.”

“And what does she say?”

Will scrubbed his hands over his face for a long moment, but met Hannibal’s eyes. “ _She_ doesn’t say anything. My subconscious, on the other hand, has taken to berating me. I don’t want to talk about it, though. I just… I know this isn’t easy for you, either.”

Hannibal scooped Mischa into his arms before walking slowly around the bed to stand beside Will, careful not to come too close. “Would you care to feed her?”

Will surprised him with a smile, one that actually reached his eyes and failed to gutter out. It lasted but a moment, yet the moment was more than Hannibal had dared hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Will, I just needed to torment him with a screaming baby. At least he's finally going to move out of Abigail's room though, right? And we get a lil' Beverly, which is always a good thing.
> 
> Everyone, I love you deeply! The waves of positive feedback and excitement have been keeping me walking on sunshine. Thanks so much, everyone, for even giving this crazy universe a shot.


	5. Confessions in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping beside the person you love shouldn't be so painful.

Hannibal had thought the first night would be the worst, would chip away at the flimsy walls he’d rebuilt in an attempt to shield himself during this difficult patch in their relationship until there was nothing left. Even in their heyday, these walls were largely ineffectual against Will, as he’d learned time and time again.

He’d watched Will gutting fish on more than one occasion, and at the time had been mildly aroused by the efficiency of his movements, of the sight of blood on his hands coupled with the cool detachment in his eyes. It had fueled many a fantasy in the early days, when he’d not yet changed his course.

It was unlike him to waste time contemplating what could have been when there was so much in the present moment to concern himself with, but there was little else to occupy his thoughts during that long first night together, and so Hannibal had indulged.

There was nothing for it. Looking back, he understood there was no victory to be had, not for the likes of him, not with a man such as Will. Had he foolishly continued on the path he’d first set out on, likely one or the other of them would be dead by now. If not dead, then butchered, hacked clumsily apart, forever bearing the scars of their encounter. Two pieces unable to fit together again, yet much too jagged to ever fit with another.

Hannibal understood himself well enough to know he would have wanted to _believe_  with such a ferocity that Will would have still been in a position of power over him. There would inevitably have been a wake up call, a moment where Hannibal was no longer able to shield himself from the truth, and knowing himself as he did, the aftermath would have been bloody and terrible.

This way was better. This way, there was at least hope, however flimsy it may be. He was lying awake, listening to Will do the same, unable to touch him for fear of destroying their delicate truce, but at least in possession of memories to sustain him. Along the other path, there never would have been a moment where Will _saw_  him, and reached for him, and said he loved him.

Ah, and how many times had _that_ moment played through Hannibal’s mind, of Will all but screaming his love, even as he choked on his anger, his hatred of Hannibal’s actions. It had been the last time they had kissed, and perhaps it was ill advised to linger on that particular memory when he could feel the warmth of Will in the bed, despite the careful distance they were maintaining.

Linger he did, though, on the feeling of Will’s hands fisted into his hair, momentarily allowing himself to take, and take, and _take_  from Hannibal, to crush their mouths together, of the desperation and hunger he had felt in Will before he had regained some semblance of control and pulled away. Despite everything, Will had kissed back, had slid his tongue hotly against Hannibal’s, had stolen his breath and given of his own in return, even knowing the truth of him, had…

As if sensing the direction Hannibal’s thoughts had taken, Will rolled over onto his side, interrupting them.

“This is ridiculous.” Hannibal fought the smile, turned his head slightly to indicate he was listening. “I know you’re awake.”

“So it would seem.”

Will made a sound either out of frustration or amusement, Hannibal was unable to tell.

“Are we going to listen to each other breathe all night?”

“Shall I breathe elsewhere?” Hannibal asked, surprised by how jovial he managed to sound, even as the offer left him cold, and aching. “You might yet be able to salvage a few hours rest.”

“No,” Will answered without hesitation. “I was thinking more… just talking.”

When Hannibal shifted, intending to turn on the bedside lamp, Will surprised him yet again by reaching across the emptiness between them, his fingers warm and insistent and stilling.

“It’ll be easier like this, in the dark. If that’s okay.”

Hannibal settled back against the bed by way of answering, and waited for Will to begin. The silence stretched out between them, ultimately reaching the point where Hannibal needed to bite down into his lower lip to keep from speaking. When Will finally felt comfortable enough to begin the conversation in earnest, it was difficult not to sigh with relief.

“Believe it or not… I miss you. What we had.”

Hannibal had never required resuscitation, had never been shocked back into the world of the living as he’d done to others when working in the E.R. a lifetime ago, but he imagined it must feel somewhat similar to hearing these words from Will’s lips. Holding back his little noise of surprise was impossible, but perhaps it was for the best if Will heard.

“Your absence has left me hollowed,” Hannibal all but whispered his confession, suddenly thankful for the darkness of the bedroom.

The ragged sound of Will’s exhalation was something to focus on, something to help stay Hannibal’s hand, protect him from himself, from the overwhelming urge to pull Will into an embrace in an attempt to fill those empty spaces left by his withdrawal. He swallowed back all the words he wished to say, spared them both the awfulness that would come if he allowed himself to beg.

“I know,” Will said, sounding broken enough for the both of them. “I… It’s like I’m two people. One of me wants to hurt you, to punish you. _Hates_.”

Hannibal closed his eyes, decided to give cessation of breath a try, if only for a moment. He would have given anything—aside from Mischa—for Will to kiss him in that moment, to at least sharpen the pain to the extent that the knife would slide cleanly through the fourth intercostal space, to more swiftly end the tragic beating of his heart. Anything but the dullness of this metaphorical blade struggling through the flesh, extending the agony in ways he’d always found particularly amusing when he was the one doling out pain.

“How strange it is, this power you have over me,” Hannibal said softly. “I envy the fish you gut.”

“Hannibal,” and Will’s voice faltered, leaving the name only half articulated.

There was a hand on his face, and it was trembling, and uncertain, and brutally tender. The callouses—earned through long hours spent fishing and fixing engines—that once made Will’s fingers distinct were unfortunately absent, to the extent that it could almost be any hand in the darkness. Fingers curled possessively around Hannibal’s jaw, a thumb stroking the curve of his cheekbone, summoning a wonderful mélange of agony and ecstasy.

 _I would rather you take the knife to me than continue on like this_ , he wished to say, but could not, for fear of Will accepting the offer.

“Hannibal,” he began again, and the trembling in Will’s hand had lessened, “the other me… he… _I_  still love you.”

Such sweet cruelty, to hear these words again. Would there ever come a time when Will’s confession of love made his heart sing? Before, the words could mean nothing at all, were only empty promises made by someone without the necessary understanding of what it was they proclaimed. Now, the words followed confessions of hatred, everything and nothing at once.

“I just need to… to reconcile. To become one person again.”

Hannibal moved slowly, placed his hand over Will’s, pressing it more firmly against his cheek. “For just a moment,” he asked, braced for the pain of rejection, “might we pretend?”

Will’s fingers jerked against his skin, and despair sank deeper into Hannibal’s bones. Resigned, he began to move his hand away, but then he heard the quiet, “Yes.”

As if the permission would be revoked as soon as Will realized how he had answered, Hannibal wasted no time, cradling Will’s hand, pressing a kiss against the center his palm. There was a sharp intake of breath from Will as Hannibal drug his mouth over the thenar eminence, tongue darting out along the way down to Will’s pulse point, where he ultimately ceased movement, content to keep his mouth there.

It was almost unbearable, this small gift serving only to whet his appetite, desire waring with patience, and pain. Will shifted beside him, inching closer, his hand sliding out of the hold Hannibal had on him, but instead of pulling away, his fingers slid up along the back of Hannibal’s neck, traced along the tender spot behind his ear, then sank into Hannibal’s hair.

Hannibal held his breath, eyes wide as he peered through the darkness, night vision good enough to show him the ghostly outline of Will’s face. He was much closer now, warmth coming off of his body in waves, and Hannibal _ached_  for him. Would that he could act; to pull their hips together, have Will feel the way Hannibal’s body responded from the simplest of his touches.

He continued to hold his breath and thought, _say yes again_. If given the chance, he would find some way to fit their broken halves back together in an attempt to form some semblance of a whole person. And when it fixed nothing, when sliding home into the heat and tightness of Will changed nothing between them in the least, well…  Either way, he would happily sink into Will never to rise again. There were worse ways to end oneself.

Unable to hold back any longer, Hannibal took a ragged breath, imagined he could taste Will in the air, closing his eyes as Will’s fingers tightened in his hair. A noise, wounded and mournful, escaped as Will pulled him in close, closer, until their foreheads were touching and he could feel the warmth of Will’s breath on his face.

Hannibal opened his eyes, found he could see Will’s own gleaming in the dark. The desire to kiss, to be kissed, to touch and be touched, hadn’t dissipated in the least, but some part of Hannibal had changed his mind, and he found himself feeling stubborn enough to resist being offered anything more than what Will had already allowed.

He hadn’t forgotten the way Will’s face had changed after he had removed the sweater, all signs of affection washed away in an instant. Pretending in the dark wasn’t what Hannibal wanted at all. He wanted Will spread across their bed with every light shining brightly so there could be no hiding from each other. He had hidden his whole life, no longer found himself amused or interested in doing so. Not with Will, at any rate.

An almost chaste kiss was pressed against Hannibal’s lips. “Someday… it won’t be pretend,” Will said softly before letting go.

“Aš tave myliu,” Hannibal mouthed, thinking of another life, another time, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch Will rolling onto his side, facing away from him, closing down once again. He had gotten his wish, and it had hurt as much as he’d expected.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning after making confessions in the dark, Hannibal rose early, as was his custom. Will surprised him by asking to change and feed Mischa, apparently ready to throw himself into parenting with renewed vigor, despite the sleepless night and dark circles under his eyes. Hannibal shoved aside his want to care for her as he was accustomed, and settled for showering her with kisses before heading off to shower himself.

Will shadowing him throughout the day was almost unsettling. He wanted to learn everything there was about how Hannibal cared for Mischa, going so far as to take notes along the way, as if there might be a test later on.

Promising as it was, some part of Hannibal resented the intrusion. Despite having longed for Will’s participation where Mischa was concerned, they had developed a lovely little routine together. He’d never been particularly good at sharing. It was difficult to hand her off to Will, be relegated to the sidelines, forced into the role of mentor.

He wished to keep some things between him and his daughter, to not have them be items on a checklist; caring for her should be an organic experience, something learned through trial and error and careful experimentation, not a vulgar recipe clipped from a magazine. _Now is the time of day when I sing to her, now is when we sit on the porch together, now..._

Hannibal supposed he was being selfish, but he wished for Mischa to love him best, felt he had earned as much. To have his role in her life reduced to something one could simply mimic implied he could be easily replaced. He was unfamiliar with having fears, but Will had carved a hole in his defenses, and allowed them easy passage.

It was difficult to ignore, especially after the emotionally fraught evening, the growing concern that Will’s intentions were less than genuine. That he would learn what he needed, and then Hannibal would be superfluous. Over the course of the day, he found himself wondering what method Will would use to kill him. Would he leave town, after? Would Mischa ever know that Hannibal had existed, or would he be carefully edited out when Will eventually had to answer the questions all children asked?

Will had described himself as two separate entities, and Hannibal was beginning to feel the same. Even as he dwelled on these darker thoughts, another Hannibal delighted in the sight of Will cradling their child, the way he was looking to Hannibal for approval at each step, wanting to get everything just right. This Hannibal revelled in the proximity of Will, of the strange familiarity of having him stand close again, not flinch away from the brush of fingers, or bumping of a shoulder as they worked side by side.

Over the course of the day and on through the evening, Hannibal struggled continually to remind himself that Will was pretending. He could see the strain building in him as the day wore on, took note of the increasing tension in his shoulders, of the lack of focus in his eyes. That Will conveniently wished to take Mischa and the dogs outside while Hannibal prepared dinner was not commented upon, nor was his lack of interest in the meal he was offered, or his decision to eat some microwaved concoction after Hannibal had finished his own meal.

It had been a long day, made to feel longer still after the night they’d shared. A long day comprised of careful, almost clinical conversation punctuated by bursts of affection being showered upon their daughter. Hannibal wasn’t surprised when Will chose to head to bed early, once Mischa had settled in for the evening.

He was equally exhausted, but hung back with a flimsy excuse, waiting several hours, hoping it was long enough, then took extreme care when entering their bedroom. Will was dead to the world, thankfully not stirring as Hannibal lowered himself into the bed, and struggled to find his own path to the welcome oblivion sleep offered.

Hannibal had thought the first night would be the worst, but he couldn’t have known how he would find himself waking, the morning after their second night together. His eyes opened on schedule ten minutes before his alarm was set to go off, only to find that sometime during the night, Will’s body had betrayed him.

The long, welcome expanse of Will’s physical form was curled around Hannibal’s own, still familiar after being so terribly absent. An arm snaked around his waist possessively, one of Will’s legs hooked over Hannibal’s in such a way that allowed him to feel Will’s morning tumescence where it was trapped between them.

Before Hannibal could attempt to extract himself, Will began to wake. The polite words Hannibal had at the ready died in his throat as Will squirmed closer, the sleepy noise of pleasure he made against Hannibal’s neck sending more blood pumping south, where he was already aching.

Will stretched languorously behind him, a slow roll of muscles tensing and relaxing, undulating against Hannibal’s body. His hand flexed against Hannibal’s chest, using his hold there to pull himself in tight. Hannibal’s mouth hung open in surprise as Will began to rock against him, hard and insistent, his lips brushing against the nape of Hannibal’s neck.

During their time together, how many mornings had begun just like this? Playful groping that, more often than not, led to something of more substance. Bodies sliding wetly against each other in the shower, making cleanup a snap. Swallowing around the head of Will’s cock as his hips bucked against the bed, Will’s fingers wound tightly in Hannibal’s hair as he moaned, and moaned. A quick, playful fuck before beginning their day in earnest, Will’s face nestled between Hannibal’s shoulder blades as they sought their release together.

As if acting on autopilot, Will’s hand snaked lower, sliding down over the trembling muscles of Hannibal’s stomach, pushing beneath the loose waistband of his pajama bottoms until Will had his fingers wrapped around Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal throbbed with pleasure as Will began an almost absentminded stroking with little rhythm or purpose to it.

Hannibal gasped, his balls already beginning to tingle and tighten alarmingly; he was unable to prevent himself from working his hips so he could thrust into Will’s hand, swallowing back another moan of pleasure. Will squeezed, his grip becoming firmer, something more purposeful, and Hannibal allowed himself to just… _believe,_ as Will nuzzled his neck and continued rubbing his cock against Hannibal’s ass.

And then, as if the spell had been broken by Hannibal’s movement, Will seemed to realize all at once what was happening, and there was a scramble to extract himself, his hand catching on the waistband of Hannibal's pants before he yanked it free. Hannibal was shoved roughly away, Will cursing as he struggled to leave the bed as quickly as possible.

“What the fuck?” he shouted, jabbing a finger in Hannibal’s direction. “You _promised_!”

Will stood enraged, his entire body shaking as he wiped his hand against his t-shirt, as if touching Hannibal had left him somehow tainted. Will was still hard, despite his apparent disgust, staring daggers at Hannibal. He scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, chest heaving, ultimately dragging the back of one hand across his mouth, across the lips that had brushed so tenderly against Hannibal’s neck.

Hannibal felt himself at a loss for words, could only lie there and gape, his own arousal having been washed away by the open abhorrence displayed by Will, his heart constricting painfully as he crashed down to Earth.

Then he found that he was on his feet, a hand fisted in Will’s shirt. “This was none of my doing,” he said, voice even and steady, even as he gave Will a shake hard enough to make his mouth close and his teeth knock together loudly in his head.

“I know you think me otherwise, but I am human in a great many ways, Will.” Hannibal released Will’s shirt, spread his palm against Will’s chest as if smoothing back the fabric, but then shoved him roughly backwards. “I will not be trifled with.”

Having said his peace, Hannibal stalked from the bedroom, feeling wild and injured and trapped within a lie. He locked the bathroom door behind himself, caught sight of his reflection, and had to laugh. “How very foolish you are,” he said softly, voice catching in his throat, “to ever think…”

But he could not finish. He could only stare at himself in the mirror, feeling betrayed, shattered, and entirely unlike himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will, if you're going to live in denial, keep your hands to yourself! Seriously, though, these guys sometimes have a mind of their own, and Will wouldn't behave. And he's... sort of pissed Hannibal off. *cough* The next chapter should be interesting, as a result. Personally, I wouldn't want to live with an irked / sulking cannibal.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, friends! So much love has been flowing my way, I can't thank you enough. Here's to another week survived during the HeAteUs.


	6. What is Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patience is not eternal.

Will couldn’t seem to stop shaking, the sensation of Hannibal’s hand on his chest lingering, although he’d hardly pushed with enough force to bruise. The skin and muscles remembered the point of contact though, as if unwilling to part with his touch. This was true everywhere their bodies had met, his hand tingling, his skin inflamed, the taste of Hannibal on his lips, the smell of him seemingly everywhere.

Hannibal had sounded preternaturally calm as he proclaimed his humanity, but his eyes told a different story altogether. It was the other _true_ Hannibal there, what Will had once only caught flashes of at the oddest moments, not comprehending what it was he saw. As if what little remained of his defenses had been burned away, the perceived injustice stood naked in his eyes, held tightly in the embrace of raw betrayal, and terrible, terrible pain.

There was no denying Will had wounded Hannibal terribly, he simply had no idea what he was meant to do about it, felt sick with dread, and also somewhat inexplicably giddy. As if through a fog, he heard the sound of running water, and then the shower engaged, and he was able to breathe again. 

Legs shaking to the point his knees actually knocked together, Will staggered over until he could drop to the edge of the bed, a soft moan escaping as the fabric of his boxers shifted against the maddening hardness between his legs. It throbbed to the beat of his heart, mocking him with its presence.

Will adjusted himself in an attempt to ease his suffering before flopping onto his back, face hidden behind his hands. His lashes were damp against his palms, as he tried to puzzle his way through what had happened.

His first conclusion was that, somehow, it was all Hannibal’s fault. Will hadn’t even so much as masturbated since he had been attacked, and that had been… well, some time ago. He’d been so lost to his depression and anxiety that it’d never even been an issue, desire the furthest thing from his mind, and so it _had_ to be Hannibal’s fault. He just wasn’t sure how, yet.

He had been dreaming, which was an oddity in and of itself, because he didn’t dream any longer, not since their conversation. He was ravaged when he closed his eyes, twisted on the rack of his excellent recollection of the minutiae of Hannibal’s many crimes, forced to feel the glory of the kill while himself being killed over, and over, and over again.

If he was being honest, though, this hadn’t been entirely dreamlike, either. If anything, it was the antithesis to the landscape of horror he’d been stranded in, a fusion of memories of a life that had once been his and Hannibal’s. One where he had the freedom of touch, of taste. One where it was natural that he would wake slowly to the sensation of warm skin against his lips, of the heady, sleepy scent of Hannibal everywhere. He had always been strange curves, sharp angles, unexpected softness coupled with the hard expanse of solid muscle, but there had never been another body to fit so well against Will’s own.

And so he had let himself enjoy the fantasy-memory, remembering how this invariably played out, some part of him stuck in the dreamscape, wondering if Hannibal was still slick with lube from the night before, curious to know if he was also in the mood for a lazy morning of lovemaking.

So, naturally, he’d investigated, only mildly confused by the pajama bottoms Hannibal was wearing, thinking he’d need to get those out of the way quickly so he could reposition Hannibal’s leg to make it easier to slide back into him where he belonged. He loved fucking Hannibal that way—some strange perversion of spoons—especially if he could hook an arm beneath one of Hannibal’s thighs to cradle his jaw, keep his head turned to the side so he could kiss him over, and over, all while slowly driving into him.

Will’s fingers slid over silken skin, finding Hannibal’s cock at stiff attention, and he allowed himself a moment to just glide over it, teasingly. He’d felt himself growing even harder, had been unable to still his hips, needing the friction, knowing it drove Hannibal crazy when he rubbed up against him like this, overeager and unashamed. Sure enough, his lover didn’t seem to need any coaxing, throbbing in his hand, almost as if he was already on the edge of orgasm.

On the bed in the present moment, Will stared at the ceiling and tried to make some version of this fit with the concept of Hannibal somehow taking advantage of _him_. He bit into his lower lip, exhaled shakily, could smell nothing but Hannibal in the air, and that should have been enough to calm his libido. Where was his disgust when he needed it, his inability to reconcile the man he loved with the grotesque craft he’d gleefully pursued?

All he could think was of his fist wrapped possessively around Hannibal’s cock, of how much he’d revelled in stroking him, and every nerve ending in Will’s body seemed to be screaming in accusation. If Hannibal was still in the room, if Will hadn’t acted defensively out of shock over his own behavior, they could be kissing right now, morning breath or no, Will could be kissing him until his lips were pink, and swollen, and Hannibal forgot how to speak.

“You’re such an asshole,” Will hissed at himself.

He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down to find his cock straining against fabric, a little telltale damp spot visible from where he was leaking precum, and felt like he’d been transported back to his teenaged years. He was so hard he couldn’t think straight, and since the shower was still running, threw caution to the wind, and shoved his boxers roughly aside.

Will sighed in relief as he sprung free from the confines of cloth, and wasted no time taking himself in hand, the same hand that had been wrapped around Hannibal. He flopped back on the bed, groaning with pleasure as he stroked himself, wondering what might happen if Hannibal chose that moment to walk back in the room. Would he watch as Will pleasured himself? Would he push Will’s hand aside, pin his wrists to the mattress above his head and take over?

_Would he..._

But he never got any further than that, was so far gone that the orgasm tore through his body hard enough to leave him seeing stars. He used his free hand to cover his mouth as he gasped and cried out, Hannibal’s name on his lips while his hips bucked, fist tight around his cock as he all but exploded over his stomach, and his chest, until he was left hot and sticky and stranded, his heart achingly empty and his eyes wide with surprise.

It hadn’t been Hannibal’s fault at all. It had been the furthest possible thing from being Hannibal’s fault. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he was actually ready for the psychological and emotional onslaught that would be attempting sex with Hannibal again, but clearly his libido had made a comeback in a rather big way, and he had taken advantage of Hannibal’s presence beside him.

Panic and shame began to creep around the edges of his satisfaction, and Will pulled the boxers off completely, used them to wipe himself off before guiltily shoving them to the bottom of the hamper, as if hiding the evidence of a crime. He grabbed a fresh pair of boxers, another shirt along with some pants, and ran downstairs to wash up properly in the other bathroom.

Once he was dressed and hopefully not stinking of self gratification, Will headed back upstairs for Mischa, noting that the bedroom door was now shut. Waves of guilt, both for what he’d done with himself, and for how he’d treated Hannibal, washed over him, leaving him queasy.

“Come on, sweetie, let’s have breakfast,” Will said, heading back downstairs with her in his arms, heart hammering away in his chest.

He had no idea what he should say, how he should apologize. He knew enough to know that, had he reacted differently—say simple embarrassment over crossing their prearranged boundaries—Hannibal would have been understanding, despite his disappointment. Their morning would have been awkward, but might have actually felt hopeful, like another clumsy step had been taken in the right direction.

Instead, he had overreacted, angry with himself for how much he wanted to continue, how much he wanted Hannibal despite what he knew, and in order to compensate had lashed out with disgust, with disdain, had accused him of something outrageous, and then rewarded himself after the fact. He was ashamed on a multitude of levels.

As if Hannibal had been watching through surveillance cameras for the right moment to descend, it wasn’t until Will had finished giving Mischa her morning bottle that he heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by the telltale click of Hannibal’s shoes against the floor as he approached the kitchen.

He was cleanly shaven, wearing one of his more elaborate three piece suits, not a hair out of place. Will watched him, mouth hanging open but no words coming to mind. Hannibal stalked over to Mischa, eyes averted, and Will felt sick all over again. For just a moment, it was like seeing himself piloting Hannibal’s body. 

Mischa was scooped up in Hannibal’s arms and showered with kisses as he let loose with a barrage of affectionate words. The problem was, Will had no idea what was being said, because Hannibal was speaking to her in French, shutting him out from the moment entirely.

Will licked his lips as he stood, one hand braced on the back of the chair for support, thoughts of lion tamers somewhere in the back of his mind as he screwed up his courage. “Hannibal…”

The eyes that turned on him were flinty, and unforgiving. Will swallowed, but set his jaw with determination, unwilling to back off so easily. Hannibal must have seen this, his nostrils flaring as his head ticked ever so slightly to the side, as if daring Will to speak.

“Save your words for one who would listen,” he said, voice colder even than his eyes. “I am not one of your dogs, to be fed scraps beneath the table.”

Will blinked several times, felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “Hannibal, I’m sorry, I _know_ , I just wanted to…”

“Your fumbling attempt to apologize shows an appalling lack of consideration,” he snapped, lips pulling back slightly to show the wicked points of his teeth. He paused, leaving space for Will to attempt to interject, but he wisely bit his tongue. “If there lingers in your fickle heart any genuine desire to regain what we once had, you’ll respect my wishes in this matter.”

A cold dread washed over Will, as if he had been wounded somewhere, as if even now he was bleeding out onto the kitchen floor, warmth draining from his body as he stared into Hannibal’s eyes. The hope, the patience, the lovesick longing he’d grown so accustomed to seeing had vanished entirely, leaving in its place an empty wasteland.

This was worse than when Hannibal resorted to his clinical persona in an attempt to distance himself, this was… Will didn’t have words for what it was, couldn’t understand it, because Hannibal had closed himself off to such an extent that Will could only guess at what he was feeling. He hadn’t realized he was crying until he heard the sob stick in his throat, felt the hitching in his chest as he struggled to remain silent. 

Hannibal studied him for a cold moment, eyes narrowed, before he gently placed Mischa back in her highchair, securing the straps that would hold her snugly upright, as she was still too small to support her own head. For her, love shone in Hannibal’s eyes, soft words falling from his lips as he made his goodbyes to Mischa.

“You will not leave before I return,” Hannibal ordered imperiously, and Will’s fingers tightened their grip on the chair, knuckles white. He remained where he was, staring, and Will felt himself nodding in agreement as if someone else had taken charge of his body.

As if this was what Hannibal had been waiting for, he turned on his heel, and Will watched him exit through the back door. It wasn’t until he heard the car pulling out of the driveway that he felt capable of moving again, staggering over to brace himself above the kitchen sink, feeling sick, yet surprisingly able to keep down the bit of food he’d ingested.

He remained there for quite some time, crying as quietly as possible so as not to alarm Mischa, one arm curled protectively around himself in an attempt to stop the shaking, wondering how the hell he had managed to fuck things up to such an extent.

The hardest thing of all, though, was actually admitting to himself that even if Hannibal broke his promise during his absence, if he sought to exact his revenge upon Will by taking the life of another, that it would change very little; he _still_ wouldn’t be able to walk away. For better or worse, he was bound to Hannibal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal brought with him the electric tension of a storm yet to break, the air heavy with some dangerous potentiality that left Bedelia decidedly uncomfortable. It had been some time since this man had darkened her doorway, long enough that she had begun to grow alarmed. She had ascertained long ago that one was safest when they were of interest to Hannibal Lecter, so it was with a balanced sense of relief and dread that she stepped aside to allow him entrance to her home.

Silences were customary between them, Hannibal enjoying performing for her, but today she suspected there was nothing of the stage in the troubled air surrounding him. The minutes simply ticked on as he stood with his back to her, gazing out through the curtains, posture almost unnaturally rigid.

“Perhaps we should forgo our usual dance,” Bedelia suggested, growing uncomfortable as hands made their way across the face of the clock beside her.

“That may be for the best,” he answered after a moment, turning his head slightly so she could see the movement of his downturned mouth as he spoke. “Today you would find me a poor partner, I think.”

“Then sit,” she suggested, gesturing to his customary seat. “Although, I suspect you’re not here to play the role of patient.”

Hannibal tipped his head, did as she asked, and Bedelia imagined she could see nothing but her own reflection within his unblinking, reptilian eyes. The small hairs on the nape of her neck rose, as if to warn her of the danger she was in. Hannibal normally took care with his viel when in her presence, out of pride or courtesy she was not certain. He was still hidden away from her, might as well have been a reflecting pool in the shape of a man, but there was no mistaking the icy chill in those waters.

“You surmise correctly,” he said, and she gave a little involuntary jump at the sound of his voice. Hannibal ignored this, continuing on, the susurration of his accent somehow leaching any sense of emotional honesty from his words. “I come to you as a friend seeking a favor.”

Bedelia willed her heart to slow, feeling like a tightrope walker as she arched an eyebrow and smiled. “Would this favor involve Will Graham, by any chance?”

Hannibal’s clever tongue darted out across his lower lip, making her think again of reptiles, of a snake catching chemical particles with its tongue, and translating them into scent, into purpose and advantage against its prey. She remained still out of instinct, as if to avoid making herself a target.

“In the last six months he has experienced a great amalgam of psychological, physical, and emotional trauma.”

In the past, she might have smiled, quipped, “Just a few of your favorite things,” but Bedelia was not a foolish woman by any means. There would be no teasing give and take in their conversation today, because Hannibal Lecter was genuinely upset about something. Something to do with his peculiar lover, but she doubted it had much to do with the Puppet Master, or his time in the hospital. Hannibal himself was almost certainly somewhere at the center of the dark heart of the matter, and this troubled her.

“If half of what appears in _Tattle Crime_ is to be believed, I would say that is an understatement.” Bedelia tilted her chin, offering him her most flattering angle. “I hope some measure of joy over the arrival of your daughter serves as a counterbalance?”

“Would that it were so,” he answered carefully, his mouth curling in that way particular to him. It only added to her unease.

“You wish me to take him on as a patient.” It wasn’t a question. Hannibal tipped his head in agreement, so Bedelia continued. “Am I to serve his best interests, or your own?”

“They are one in the same,” he answered without hesitation. Sensing her lack of acceptance of this answer, he added, “We wish to provide a loving home for Mischa.”

“A relationship such as the one you propose,” Bedelia said after careful consideration, “requires no small measure of trust. I cannot be of service to Mr. Graham if he believes I am reporting back to you.”

“To do so would be vulgar,” Hannibal agreed. “I have no such expectations.”

This surprised her. It was possible he was lying, but she suspected otherwise. If that was the case, it meant something had gone very wrong indeed, and Hannibal could think of no other way to help Will Graham. It was as intriguing as it was alarming.

“Very well then. As you know, I only have room in my life for one patient. Will you be giving up your regular time slot for Mr. Graham?”

“If that is what is required.”

“It is.”

Bedelia stood, extending her hand to him. Hannibal rose to meet her, took her hand in his and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. She imagined he could smell the fear lingering beneath the scent of her perfume, but her hand remained steady, and he smiled when she used the other to stroke the side of his face with the same care one might use when petting a large, predatory cat.

“Now, shall we share some wine, and talk as colleagues? I think I would very much like to see photos of your daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WILL! I doubt Hannibal is going to feel any better when he finds out you jerked off after basically crushing his heart in a vice. Although, he is a weirdo... But, seriously. Dude. You know he'll smell it. He's so not amused by you right now.
> 
> Thanks for all the shared "ARGH!!! WILL!" after the last chapter. :)


	7. The Comfort of Blood

Hannibal sat alone in his office, legs crossed, staring at the empty seat opposite his own, unmoving save for the slight shift of the body necessitated by the act of breathing. There was a stillness to his thoughts to match that of his body, this state having taken the better part of two hours to achieve.

To an observer, the chair would appear to be empty, but for Hannibal it was occupied by Will Graham, a silent, pensive Will who watched him with wounded eyes. He’d yet to allow the phantom permission to speak, unsure of his ability to sufficiently maintain his calm when confronted with the sound of his voice. The imagined sight of him alone had been enough to leave Hannibal snarling with an uncharacteristic rage, blood pumping, teeth gnashing.

The exercise was required if he was to be able to return home. There were a great many strange and wonderful things Hannibal had thought of doing to or sharing with Will during the time they had known each other, but this was an altogether different experience. He wished to hurt him, to wound him deeply and intimately in such a way that would leave Will unable to forget the lack of care he had taken with Hannibal’s heart. There would be no pleasure for either of them in the act, but some lessons were best learned the hard way.

In the empty chair, the Will that was not Will ducked his head, staring up at Hannibal through his lashes, and where the anger should have blossomed there was naught but the desire to crush him with unexpected tenderness. Progress, at least, however foolish.

Hannibal rose from his seat, the embodiment of fluid grace as he strode across the room, situated himself at the harpsichord, and began to play. Best not to allow his thoughts to run away with him, better yet to put a foot to the neck of imagined acts of love between himself and Will.

And so he played, and thought of his beloved Mischa, of extracting her from the home they had begun to build around her, one as false as those constructed for movie sets of the past; nothing but propped up fronts, a lie agreed upon between the creators and the audience. Thought of moving about Europe with Mischa, of Will’s all too certain pursuit, but could not imagine inflicting that upon the child. It was the neverending stalemate rearing its ugly head once again.

There had been a moment, Hannibal was certain of it, where he might have broken free, reset his course, still found some way back to himself. The loneliness, the disappointment, these were fleeting feelings, ones he’s certain he would have mastered given enough time. Other adventures would have awaited him, and never would he have been subjected to this particular brand of torment.

They had argued over the dogs, a little thing, which in and of itself was the very embodiment of the issue for Hannibal. How beneath him it had felt, commonplace and altogether alien. Worthy of laughter, but Will’s irritation had stung, coming as it did during a particularly difficult time of temptation.

Hannibal had returned home, seething, had found himself taking up the Rolodex without thinking, flipping through the cards, perusing a collection of offenses of no true importance save their capacity to serve as fuel for inspiration. 

In truth, their slights were like gnats in the corner of his eye; an annoyance to be rectified, something to be balanced. Unlikely to bring true satisfaction, as Will was the offender in this instance, his criticism lingering like an infection, a wildfire burning away Hannibal’s reason, insidious, under the skin and unextractable.

Hannibal wished for the comfort of blood, the luxurious flow as the heart struggled in the last moments, ever dedicated to its singular purpose, pumping out a lifetime of potential, slick and coppery and Hannibal’s for the taking.

He had made a mistake, thinking himself capable of surviving, of passing himself off as one of these mewling, small minded creatures. What worth did the attention of one man, however pleasing, hold for him in comparison to what he had lost?

A card plucked at random, a small, niggling thought of his phone, turned off and slid into Will’s bookshelf as an excuse to return the following day, and then the door and all the promise awaiting on the other side.

It hadn’t taken much effort to find the man, which was disappointing, cheapened it somehow, and so he had returned home once again after long hours spent watching, feeling cheated. He had no compassion, no true second thoughts about his desire to destroy and consume, it was just… If he was to give up on his project, on his promise to himself, should it not be for a masterpiece?

The few hours that remained to him before his first appointment were spent planning, sketching, one atrocity after the next, an attempt to orchestrate something worthy of the sacrifice. The Rolodex was hurled against a wall, cards falling around him like cherry blossom petals caught in a breeze. It all made Hannibal feel incredibly small.

Returning to Will’s home, finding it dark, making himself comfortable. This would be their last night together, one last draught from the fountain of Will’s false affection to sustain him through the difficult transition back to his rightful path.

None of it had gone as planned, which in and of itself was so very like his entire relationship with Will Graham, was at the heart of everything that made him worthy and desirable in the first place. 

“It’s okay,” Will had told him, again and again over the course of the evening, unaware of what he was condoning. “It’s okay,” and had taken him by the throat, then simply… taken him, somehow knowing exactly what the caged animal that was Hannibal’s heart required in order to quieten.

It had been pleasurable to an almost embarrassing extent, giving himself over to Will, allowing himself the freedom to writhe beneath him, to accept the gift of something he hadn’t known he needed. His darling boy had seen, had acted on instinct, had filled Hannibal to bursting, the physical pleasure serving as accompaniment to the strange and wonderful hope Will seemed to thrust in and through the holes of Hannibal’s barriers. 

Teeth sinking into flesh as if Will wished to mark him, make it known that this body and the strange creature inhabiting it was his and his alone. Hannibal came and came, still feeling the ghost of Will’s hand around his throat, and felt his plans unraveling yet again, spilling out into the universe as he spent himself on Will’s sheets, as he felt himself filled in exchange, Will’s attempt to return some of what was taken.

The playing ceased, and Hannibal studied his hands, returning from the haze of his memories, feeling as if he cradled the weight of his own heavy heart. Thought idly to himself of scales, of balancing, wondering which of them would tip things too far in the wrong direction, and if either of them would survive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will was an exposed nerve, all input and no filters. Time had given up on him, leaving him clock watching, desperate for the sound of Hannibal’s return, which was in turn the very thing he feared hearing most of all.

He did the laundry, even knowing it was too late. Upon entering the room, Hannibal would have been able to tell what had transpired, that Will had taken his pleasure on the back of Hannibal’s pain, salt in an open wound. There was no taking it back, but Will wasn’t sure how they were meant to move forward.

Certainty was a luxury, something for small children, or those unwilling to risk knowing the truth of loving another person to the extent that you lost a part of yourself in the bargain. Death and pain were the only constants to be counted upon, and he’d had his fill.

Mischa cared for none of it, simply wanted love and attention showered upon her, and he did his best to accomodate her over the course of the day. He wondered if there would come a time when one or the other of them would be required to explain this to her, if she would be in possession of confusing, half-buried memories of fathers walking the knife’s edge around her as she grew up.

The idea of her, some future her, puzzling through her own past left him feeling queasy and uncomfortable. She deserved some semblance of normalcy, yet she was trapped between a killer and a man who condoned his actions by staying, yet continued to crucify him for what he had done. It would be laughable, if it weren’t so excruciating.

Half of Will wanted Hannibal to return in the mindset of a victorious conqueror, storm into their home and simply take what he wanted, allowing Will the illusion of not having a choice in the matter. Hannibal would never be satisfied with this course of action, though, would only accept consent given freely.

“It shouldn’t even be an issue,” Will said to Mischa. “I should just leave with you.”

She just stared at him, and it felt accusatory.

“You’re too young to understand,” Will added, burying his face in his hands. “Shit, I don’t understand.”

When he closed his eyes, he saw Hannibal again. A heartbroken Hannibal speaking of dogs, and scraps. An almost smugly satisfied Hannibal reminding him he had never complained about the people he was served, gladly eating his fill when at the table. Hannibal, and Hannibal, and Hannibal again, the thousand and one incarnations of him, from tender lover to unscrupulous manipulator to consumer of life to _father_.

It was almost a relief to hear the car pulling up the drive, to know one way or another the waiting would be over for a time. Will rushed to the window, then scurried away, not wanting to be seen. He went to scoop Mischa into his arms, but left her where she was, worried of how Hannibal would perceive the act; him frightened, and hiding behind a child.

Then there was no time left for thinking, because the door opened, closed again, and the air around Will seemed to crackle as Hannibal entered the room. His movements were too precise, his eyes too still, and distant.

Will found himself wanting to beg, and not sure why. Hannibal was certainly capable of killing him, but he didn’t fear this, didn’t fear physical violence in the least. It was something else entirely, it was…

“Will.”

There was no affection, no tenderness, nor anger to be found in the word. It was like watching an automaton speak, precise movement of lips and tongue, and Will shuddered involuntarily, a memory surfacing in a flash of there and gone; Hannibal’s mouth against his, sharing breath, his name passing from Hannibal’s lips to his own in reverence.

“Hannibal,” he said in turn, tucking the memory aside, allowing a calm he hadn’t known he possessed to wash through him.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, staring at each other before Will swallowed, and clenched his fists at his side, still maintaining eye contact. There was nothing to see there, so hiding was pointless; all the walls were up, and he was on the wrong side of them.

“This used to be so easy,” he heard himself say, and it was true. Although terrifying, it had been far too easy to fall in love with Hannibal.

The doctor blinked, and it softened nothing. “In some ways, I fear we are too alike.”

Will nodded, his jaw clenching and a headache forming behind his eyes. Not too long ago, he would have raged at the thought of commonalities between himself and Hannibal, but there was no point in lying to himself.

“Yes.”

“Nothing good can come of us continuing on as we have,” Hannibal pronounced, and Will felt his hands begin to shake. He expected his pain was writ plainly across his face as the fear rushed through him, because Hannibal’s expression shifted minutely, just a slight softening around the eyes, but it was there, it was something.

“No,” Will agreed, swallowing, hating the way his voice rasped on the word. He brushed absently at his eyes, the tears unwelcome. “I suppose not.”

They stood once more in silence, before Will couldn’t stand it any more and blurted, “Are you giving up on me?”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, his head ticking to the side, and Will thought of gears, of clockwork, of beautiful, deadly machinery. For one brilliant moment, everything was pulled back, and Will could _see_ again, and the relief flooded through him, coupled with adrenaline, his legs shaking and threatening to give out on him. Hannibal still loved him, it was all there, just beneath the surface.

A warm, wonderfully familiar hand cupped his face, Hannibal suddenly _right there_  with him, and Will reached out without thinking, holding on in an attempt to keep himself upright. 

“Never,” Hannibal hissed, and Will tried and failed to stop himself, because he was babbling, saying “I’m sorry” over and over again, until Hannibal gave him a little shake. “But we are deadlocked, you and I, and it will end in blood if we are not careful.”

Will struggled to gain control of himself, sickened by his own weakness, his need for Hannibal despite everything. A dizzy euphoria took hold of Will, his eyes focused on Hannibal’s mouth; he wanted Hannibal to kiss him, to push him through the moment, see him safely through to the other side. As if reading his thoughts, Hannibal disentangled himself, took several steps back so that a careful distance was maintained between them.

“Our perspective is skewed, entrenched as we are.”

Will wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, pulled at his lower lip with numb fingers, needing some sensation there, after the kiss did not manifest. “What do you suggest?”

“You will be seeing Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier.”

This Will had not expected, and the need to sit down returned. He remained on his feet, though, hands fisted at his side. “A… psychiatrist?”

Hannibal continued on before Will could begin sputtering his refusal. “To be specific, _my_ psychiatrist. While some delicacy shall be required, Dr. Du Maurier knows enough that you will be able to speak freely to her of our unique situation.”

The fear and heartache were shoved roughly aside by indignation. “You murder people, and _I_ get therapy? This is your solution?”

“Would you rather I handle things in the manner to which I am accustomed?”

Will took two steps backwards as the fire lit once more behind Hannibal’s eyes, and found himself wondering what part of him Hannibal would eat first. It was the height of folly to forget what he was capable of, to take his stoic demeanor for actual calm; Hannibal was still furious, and most certainly dangerous.

“I thought not,” he said, his teeth snapping on the final T. Once Hannibal seemed satisfied that Will was done with his criticism, he added, “This is not up for discussion.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“Your first appointment is tomorrow.”

And with that said, Hannibal swirled out of the room. Will might have followed, attempted to continue their discussion, but to do so would be akin to sticking his head between the jaws of a hungry tiger. In the entire time their little, broken family had been in the room together, Hannibal hadn’t once acknowledged Mischa’s presence. It was telling, and worrisome.

Will struggled to hold onto his anger, but he was exhausted, and it simply slipped through his fingers. It was best to take Mischa in his arms, curl up with her, and accept that Hannibal had, in some small way, given him exactly what he had wanted; no choice in the matter whatsoever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Will, enjoy the therapy! At least it is with Bedelia and not Hannibal, because... yikes.


	8. A Strange Dynamic

“I don’t have a choice.”

Silence filled the room, and Will distracted himself by visualizing it as water. It pooled around his ankles, seeping through his clothing, cool and welcome and safely familiar. They were old friends, he and water, and so even as it rushed into the room with increasing urgency, rising above his knees, his shoulders, his head, he did not react. Will simply blinked lazily, watching Bedelia Du Maurier watching him.

It took a moment or two for him to register the fact that the movement of her mouth was connected with speech, that she was talking to him rather than gasping for air, sucking in lungfuls of water instead.

He had no intention of asking her to repeat herself, and so the silence remained, until she realized her words had fallen on deaf ears. Will felt himself smiling, a nasty little curling of the lips that had nothing to do with humor, and everything to do with annoyance, and a desire to provoke. Bedelia did not react, not that he’d expected her to, but she did attempt to engage him once more.

“Isn’t it safer to say you _wish_ you had no choice?”

“I’m sorry, I should have been inclusive,” Will said, meeting her eyes. “Neither of us has a choice.”

She surprised him by smiling, tossing her hair back over her shoulder as she settled more comfortably into her seat. It was odd, sitting opposite this woman, specifically because Will had the uncomfortable feeling that she was far better suited to Hannibal than he was. A sentiment suspiciously akin to jealousy tugged at his heart as he wondered if Hannibal ever considered a more intimate relationship with Dr. Du Maurier, and if she would have been amenable to such an arrangement.

“Let us act as if we had the freedom of choice. How would you have things?”

Will considered her question, his eyes flitting around the room once again before landing on her hands, clasped demurely in her lap. She was so very lovely, so careful with her words, a neat and tidy creature of culture. He thought of other conversations, another office with other chairs, and a beautiful man watching him with hungry eyes.

“I don’t see the value in playing pretend with you.”

“What does hold value for you, Will?”

He wondered if she could hear his teeth grinding from where she was seated. Wondered when this ordeal would be over and done with, in the truest sense. There was nothing for him here, in this office, with this woman, nothing aside from time away from the ever present tension at home. She was watching him expectantly, though, waiting for an answer. 

“The usual things.” A perfectly shaped eyebrow arched in response, so he added, “Family.”

Silence stretched out once again, but was broken by Bedelia just as Will had decided to resummon the water.

“What, exactly, is your therapeutic objective, Will?”

Well, and that was the big question, was it not? He had no desire to be in therapy at all, so really her question should be directed to Hannibal. He opened his mouth, intending to say as much, but instead blurted, “Not ever having another panic attack would be nice.”

Will allowed himself to appreciate her ability to school her features. She hadn’t been expecting a useful answer to her question—neither had he for that matter—but Dr. Du Maurier didn’t so much as blink in response.

“A worthwhile goal. I take it this is a recent development?”

He sighed, thinking to himself that what he knew of Hannibal’s sessions with this woman frequently  involved sharing wine. A glass would be nice, would give him something to hold onto. Tangibility would be wonderful, for in the corner of the room the shade of Abigail Hobbs watched him warily, his subconscious providing a visual reminder of his need to tread carefully.

Initially, Hannibal had indicated Will would be able to speak freely with the doctor, but the following morning brought with it a lengthy outline of just how much Will was at liberty to reveal. She was suspicious, had actually witnessed Hannibal ending a life once, but had nothing concrete to allow her to confidently declare him a serial killer.

Oddly enough, Hannibal expressed no concerns over whether or not Will wished to discuss being afraid of Hannibal, or dance carefully around the concepts of his disturbing actions, but there could be no true confession, no legitimate declaration of what he knew the man to be.

Will wasn’t afraid of Hannibal, though, not in the ways he should be. His fears were much what they’d always been, with some substitutions. Once he’d feared Abigail loved Hannibal more than she loved him—now he feared Mischa would always be closer to Hannibal, and would drift away from him at the first given opportunity. He feared Hannibal giving up on him, extracting himself and their child, leaving him behind, crippled by his own misery. And, because nothing was ever simple, he was just as troubled by the thought that Hannibal would never give up on him, no matter how much it hurt them in the process.

Abigail slid through the shadows to stand behind Dr. Du Maurier, her eyes appearing almost inky beneath her lashes as she watched him, unblinkingly. Will could feel his pulse quickening in response, and had to bite into his lower lip to still a rebuke as Abigail rested one of her pale, noncorporeal hands on Bedelia’s shoulder.

It had been days and days since he had seen her, and he couldn’t help but notice she was bedecked in the same somber clothing she had worn when accosting him after her own funeral. The room began to take on a strange sort of vibrancy, flooding with unnatural light, colors uncomfortably alive, everything in the room too sharp, too clear as he struggled to project a calm he no longer felt, synapses firing chaotically within his brain.

“Will?” Bedelia asked, and he jumped in his seat as if touching a live wire, the muscles in his body tensed in response to a non-existent threat. 

Abigail’s hair swung forward almost in slow motion, silken strands spilling across Bedelia’s shoulders as the dead girl embraced her from behind, a sickly smile transforming her normally beloved features into something ugly, and unwholesome.

“Go on, Will,” Abigail challenged, turning her head slightly so she could kiss Bedelia’s cheek. “Tell the doctor how I won’t leave you alone. See how long it takes her to recommend you spend some time locked up.”

Unable to help himself, Will gasped, pressing a shaking hand to his mouth in a belated attempt to prevent the noise from escaping. He was certain his eyes were wide, and glassy, that Bedelia could see the sickness in him.

“Will, I would like you to focus on your breathing, on taking a slow, steady breath with me,” Bedelia suggested, her voice a welcoming oasis of calm.

Instead, Will found himself holding his breath until dark spots began to swim across his field of vision, then exhaled in a burst, sucking in a panicked lungful of air, his eyes squeezing shut to block out the sight of Abigail’s mocking smile where it hovered so close to Bedelia’s calm features. 

His eyes snapped open a moment later when Bedelia’s hand made contact with his forearm.

“Come with me,” she said, and there was no wiggle room in the request. 

It caught him so off guard, that he was on his feet and following her by the time he realized he should have protested, should have remained behind, or left altogether. Instead, they began a slow walk around the back of her property, Bedelia stopping to explain the different breeds of flower as they encountered them, and much to his surprise Will felt the panic losing its grip on him.

“I think that might be enough for today,” Bedelia suggested, as they finished the tour of her garden. She looked up at Will, the picture of composure, waiting for a response.

“Alright.”

“I ask you to carefully consider allowing me to prescribe you anti-anxiety medication,” she continued, and Will felt the tension returning. “All I’ve asked is consideration, not acquiescence,” she added, clearly picking up on his unvoiced protest.

“Fine.”

She began walking him to his car, trusting him enough to turn her back on him as they went, and he watched the careful precision of each of her steps, high heels clicking against the driveway. When they reached their destination, she turned to face him once again, a careful smile playing at her lips.

“Until next time, Mr. Graham.”

Almost against his own wishes, Will found himself smiling in return, tipping his head slightly, a respectful gesture he felt Hannibal would have appreciated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal spared a moment to wonder what it said of his current state of affairs that the sight of Samuel Anderson’s heartfelt smile upon seeing him could serve as a buoy, his spirits lifting significantly in response to the genuine delight the other man exhibited. He looked more the promising young man Hannibal had first encountered in the parking garage of a hospital than the broken and beaten individual he’d last spoken with through grimy telephones, and a reinforced glass partition.

“You look well, Samuel,” Hannibal proclaimed, feeling himself smiling softly in response to Samuel’s expression.

To his surprise, the lad actually blushed, a rather fetching pink creeping across his pale features, his green eyes momentarily averted, focusing instead on Hannibal’s hands.

“Any improvement in my disposition is most certainly attributable to you, sir,” he said, and as was always the case, Hannibal found himself fascinated by the low, smokey voice, such a delightful contrast to Samuel’s innocent appearance. “You’ve been far too generous. I’m not sure I can ever repay you for intervening on my behalf.”

“Dr. Chilton deserves some measure of gratitude; more than I, he is responsible for your transfer.”

Samuel met his eyes, his smile deepening. There was understanding evident there, which Hannibal was grateful for. He was well aware of Frederick’s naughty little indulgences. It went without saying that every word passing between them was being recorded and reviewed by the master of the keep. 

Nonetheless, Hannibal was unwilling to leave anything to chance, and had within his pocket a slip of paper bearing the inscription ‘we’re being recorded.’ He retrieved this message, cradling it within his palm just long enough for Samuel’s eyes to scan over the words, his head tipping ever so slightly in acknowledgement as the paper vanished once more.

“Of course, and I do so hope he never has opportunity to regret putting his faith in me. More than ever, since coming under his care, I feel a true sense of hope.” Leaning forward in his seat, he added, “I’m sure it would come as no surprise to learn Dr. Chilton has been a source of great comfort in the short time since my arrival.”

“It pleases me to hear this,” Hannibal said, his features calm and blank. 

If anything, Chilton would most certainly have been fawning over his new arrival, stinking of desperation, and a parasitical desire to draw from the well of notoriety this young serial killer possessed. That such a clean cut, handsome individual had pled guilty, and unapologetically confessed his contributions to the Puppet Master crimes in all their gory detail in open court, only made him of more interest to the masses, and the psychiatric community at large.

Frederick had gone out of his way to mention of the amount of mail that had begun arriving at the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane upon Samuel's relocation to the facilities, and while a good bit of it was bizarre fan mail, enough interest was being shown in Chilton himself that there was no doubt Samuel would have a far easier time here than in prison. With a cell of his very own, and lack of contact with the other patients, it was ensured there would be no repeat of the physical violence and sexual assault that had plagued him at his prior residence.

Samuel tipped his head in the direction of the paper Hannibal had brought with him, carefully rolled, and bound with a red ribbon. It had been resting off to the side as they conversed, but clearly Samuel’s curiosity had gotten the better of him.

“I wouldn’t want you to think your company wasn’t gift enough, but am I correct in assuming that is for me?”

Hannibal smiled, thinking to himself that Samuel’s particular brand of flattery would get him everywhere with Chilton.

“Under other circumstances, one could consider it a housewarming gift of sorts,” Hannibal explained, lifting the scroll and placing it with careful precision in front of Samuel.

“You’re too kind, Dr. Lecter,” Samuel replied. “Before I accept, I find myself obliged to ask if Dr. Chilton has already seen the contents? I’m still learning the rules, you see, and wouldn’t want to presume.”

“A wise course of action,” Hannibal said, and shared a knowing look with the effusive killer. “Dr. Chilton has seen and approved of my offering, and expressed no objection to your accepting the gift.”

Samuel nodded his thanks, and gestured to the object in question, refraining from undoing the ribbon until receiving a nod of approval from Hannibal. He showed great respect with his careful unfurling of the ribbon, rolling it neatly and setting it aside, understanding this portion of the gift would be leaving with Hannibal.

Hannibal watched hungrily as Samuel revealed the sketch that was his gift, his expression shifting from generally pleasant to genuinely moved; his green eyes widened, grew bright with unshed tears, as his mouth went slack, full lower lip sticking out with almost childlike wonder. A sharp intake of breath, a shaky exhale, and for a moment Samuel managed to tear his eyes away from the gift.

“This… You drew this?”

“I did,” Hannibal answered, allowing himself to grow warm, and sated by the feast of emotions unfolding before him. “From memory, so do forgive me if some details are lacking.”

Samuel wiped hurriedly at his eyes, his lower lip trembling for just a moment as he struggled to regain his composure. His fingertips hovered over the artwork, hungry for contact, but reticent to cause any damage to the artwork.

“No, your memory serves you well, sir,” Samuel murmured. “I can’t… I have no way to ever thank you for such a gift.”

Hannibal made certain Will hadn’t laid eyes upon the sketch as he was working on it, choosing to keep it at the office as opposed to their home, as he suspected his lover would take issue with the subject matter, as well as the intended recipient.

The interior of the barn that had held such an important place in Samuel and Jacob’s world—the very place where Jacob himself had been brought to an end by the F.B.I.—was sketched with an almost eery level of detail, right down to the imperfections in the wood left behind by the first bullet that had missed sliding hotly through Jacob’s head that fatal day.

Abigail Hobbs and Jacob Anderson were within the barn, seated side by side, their eyes looking warmly, beseechingly out to the viewer. There was a very specifically distanced space between them, their bodies angled almost as if that person was present after all, a space in the very shape of Samuel himself. Hannibal imagined the young man might spend quite a bit of time projecting himself into the void, once the sketch was hung upon the wall of his cell.

Abigail appeared as she would have when they met, ever so slightly less sure of herself, an almost wounded, imploring look to her eyes, incongruous to her welcoming smile. She was beautiful, her best features highlighted, appearing as through the eyes of one who loved her deeply.

Drawing Jacob had been more difficult, as Hannibal had only seen him after his death. There had been a photograph in Jacob’s pocket when he died, one Hannibal had studied for a great length of time after having it brought to his attention by Jack Crawford. In the photo, Jacob smiled beatifically, if a bit maniacally, at the camera. Samuel had an arm around his shoulders, which caused his shirt to lift ever so slightly, revealing a patch of pale skin. Jacob’s arm was wound possessively around his younger brother’s waist, his long fingers curled rather intimately against the exposed skin of Samuel’s stomach.

This photograph served as Hannibal’s inspiration, as well as entertainment in its own right. Samuel had the strangest mix of euphoria and misery visible in his eyes, something Jacob was sure to have seen, if he had been willing to look. Such a strange dynamic between the two, torn between love and hate in an dance uncomfortably like a perverted interpretation of Hannibal’s own with Will.

“Apply yourself with a whole heart,” Hannibal said, cutting through the heavy silence, and across the table Samuel’s bright eyes narrowed, his mouth curling into a smile altogether vicious, “to this opportunity Dr. Chilton has so graciously provided.”

With his eyes, Hannibal projected his true intent. _Impress me. Show me what you can accomplish while trapped within this strange little fiefdom._

Samuel’s smile deepened. “I’ll certainly do my best, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, I'm continually amazed, overjoyed, and ever so positively overwhelmed by how amazing all of you are, with your continued commitment to hanging in there with me as I eek out chapters, and how many of you take the time to leave kudos and comments. No lie, any time a comment appears, I get a little spring in my step, and my day is a little brighter. You're all The Best! <3
> 
> Every once in a while, someone takes it to the next level, and finds a bit of inspiration in this universe I've puzzled together, and blows my mind completely. So, yes, if you haven't seen it on tumblr, you may wish to check out [mayinwinter](http://mayinwinter.tumblr.com/)'s[ au/fan side-story](http://finely-honed.tumblr.com/post/90937828487/its-an-au-fan-side-story-of-your-story-d)!
> 
> So, yeah, Hannibal, I know you're sad, and bored, and (as always) miss carving people up and eating them, but I dunno if it is the best idea to start a side project with Samuel _We Beat The Crap Out Of Each Other, And Then You Broke Me In An Interrogation Room So Now You're The Fill In For My Dead, Controlling, Fucked Up Older Brother_ Anderson. Just saying.  Also, Samuel should probably get a shorter middle name, because filling out tax forms must be tough.


	9. An Olive Branch

“Oh my god, look at you,” Beverly all but shouted, “you’re a _dad_!”

Will found himself grinning, whatever lingering concerns he’d been clinging to over having his lunch date with Beverly washed away by her bright smile, and obvious enthusiasm.

Despite Beverly’s previous ultimatum of lunching with him within ten days’ time, their outing had been rescheduled over and over again through no fault of Will’s own. Just as he’d been ready to count himself in the clear, Beverly had called him and announced, “Tomorrow, us, food, baby!” and that was that.

Will had admittedly felt like an asshole while strapping on the BabyBjörn—he secretly loved the way it kept Mischa snug against his chest—since there would be very little walking involved with their picnic lunch, and he could just as easily carry her. Beverly’s reaction to seeing him washed that all away, leaving him surprised by his emotional response to her comment.

No one could argue that his involvement in Mischa’s life had been steadily increasing since he finally broke his self imposed isolation within Abigail’s room. While he liked to think of himself as having made great strides, Will knew he had a long way to go before he was really a _father_ , at least in the way he felt Hannibal embodied fatherhood. There was something about hearing Beverly’s declaration that had his heart racing, though, and a warm sense of satisfaction flooding through his chest, as if somehow her words had the power to make it real.

“I guess I am, huh?” Will asked, ducking his head a bit in an attempt to hide the smile threatening to take over his face.

“Wow,” Beverly added, pulling him into a strange half-hug with Mischa burbling happily between them. “You look really, really good, Will.”

Now he was blushing, which was strange, because it was _Beverly_ , and she was just being nice. At the same time, he had been steadily putting back on the weight he’d lost, and actually sleeping more, so maybe she wasn’t just being polite. He’d even shaved that morning, thinking of the last time he’d seen Alana, knowing Beverly would be reporting back. There was nothing Alana could do, really, but just the thought of her frowning over Bev’s feedback left him with a strange, worming, panicked sensation in his stomach.

“Okay, alright,” he groused, “I know you’re just sucking up so I’ll hand over Mischa.”

Beverly punched him playfully on the shoulder, but hard enough to let him know she meant business. “I’ll totally take you up on the baby offer, but I’m serious.”

As he extracted Mischa from her carrier, Will mulled this over. The last time he’d actually seen Beverly had been at Abigail’s funeral, but he had a feeling her expectations of his appearance had nothing to do with that day. He thought again of the extra care he’d taken in getting ready earlier in the day, and something like smug relief stirred within him.

“I’m guessing Alana didn’t like what she saw when she popped in for a surprise visit?” Based on Beverly’s expression, Will knew he’d hit the nail on the head. “I’ll be sure to thank her for that the next time I talk to her.”

“Shut up, she was just worried,” Beverly said, “and she clearly exaggerated, because you look great. And so do _you_!”

Will watched as Beverly snuggled Mischa, blowing a raspberry against her belly before settling the baby on her hip. He gathered up the supplies he’d brought along, and they began walking into the park proper, scouting out possible locations for spreading out their lunch, and Will was unable to keep himself from sneaking sidelong glances at Beverly and Mischa as they walked.

To passersby, they might look like a family, and Will was surprised to find himself suddenly wishing Hannibal was there. It seemed strange that Hannibal was missing for what was really his first outing with Mischa. Stranger still to find himself actually comfortable with the idea of missing Hannibal; there was no wave of panic, no accompanying dark imagery as his mind scrambled to remind him why there was distance between the two of them in the first place.

“So, what exactly did Alana say?” Will asked as he unfurled the blanket he’d brought along with him. He carefully avoided looking at Beverly, hoping the question sounded casual enough, all while attempting to push thoughts of Hannibal to the back of his mind.

“Don’t get all weird on me,” Beverly said, “Well, weirder. It wasn’t awful, or anything, she just said you looked way too skinny, and like you hadn’t slept in a year. Which, you know, makes sense. Considering.”

“Do me a favor, and tell her how healthy and well adjusted I was during lunch.”

Will could feel Beverly watching him as he opened the picnic basket and began taking out the lunch Hannibal had insisted on preparing for them, corners of his mouth twitching in an almost smile over the sparkling apple cider and glasses that had been snuck into the basket since the last time he’d looked inside.

The morning had felt almost like a peace offering of sorts, an uncomfortably comfortable bit of time spent together in the kitchen.

“Of course you own an actual picnic basket,” Will had teased, a hesitant smile on his face as he bounced Mischa in his arms.

For his part, Hannibal had tutted, all while carefully trimming the crusts from exquisite little vegetarian sandwiches he’d prepared for Will’s outing, the corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly in a smile of his own.

It felt almost surreal, to the point where Will actually began to attempt to conjure some nervousness, some anxiety, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such a good mood, and that in and of itself was beginning to freak him out.

“Or, you could come out with us next Friday and just show her,” Beverly suggested, and Will had to scramble to figure out what she was talking about, already having forgotten his request.

“Uh, maybe.” His eyes skittered over to Mischa as he removed the BabyBjörn he was still wearing. “We’ll see.”

When he looked back, Beverly was smiling at him knowingly. “I’ll believe it when I see it. So, how are you doing, really?”

Will had expected some serious conversation to take place, and in some ways it was nice to feel the familiar weight of sorrow pressing in on him. He found himself making a mental note to mention this to Bedelia; he’d clearly spent so much time in abject misery that he’d begun to think of it as feeling normal.

“Better,” Will answered cautiously, knowing full well that ‘better’ was an extremely generous assessment. “Mischa is a nice distraction. Not that she isn’t _more_ than a distraction!”

“I know what you mean, Will,” Beverly assured him, rolling her eyes theatrically at his backpedaling. “Between you and me—and I mean that, I won’t say anything to anyone—how are you really?”

Will worried at his lower lip, suddenly finding the plate of sandwiches particularly interesting, and found himself once again in the position of saying something other than what he had planned on. “Pretty sure I have PTSD.”

“Shit, it’d be weird if you didn’t,” Beverly replied, and Will looked up to find her smiling sadly at him. “I have nightmares sometimes, you know. About the attack?”

He hadn’t known, and couldn’t think of anything to say in response. The stabbing felt like something that had happened to something else, the scar almost having come to represent the pain Hannibal’s revelation had wrought in him, entirely disconnected from Gary Buttram and the knife that had been sunk into him. It had never occurred to him that the event could have such an impact on Beverly, but he managed to catch himself before saying as much.

“Usually I’m trying to stop the bleeding while also trying to use the phone to call 911, but I can hardly move. That sort of stuck in molasses feeling, you know?”

“Yeah,” Will said, surprised by how rough his voice sounded. They were quiet for a moment, as Will piled a plate high with food and placed it in front of Beverly. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for saving my life.”

“Someone had to,” she replied, a forced cheerfulness in her voice. “I’m just glad I was there.”

“Me too.”

Beverly sighed, pressing her cheek against the top of Mischa’s head. “I miss Abigail.”

“Me too,” Will repeated, clearing his throat. “Mischa has her eyes.”

“She does,” Beverly agreed, switching into baby talk as she showered the little girl with kisses. “I’m guessing you’re going to have a lot of people thinking you’re her biological father, though.”

Will thrilled at this despite himself, uncomfortable by how much it pleased him. He gazed at the little girl with her big blue eyes, and the light tufts of hair showing on her head. Hannibal had explained that it would be a while before Mischa’s true hair color could be known, as this bit of fuzz was likely to disappear, almost like one of the dogs shedding its fur.

“People just project, see what they want to see. I’m sure if either of us was out with her alone, people would find similarities just because they expect to find them.”

“Right,” Beverly drawled, one eyebrow arched at him. She snatched up a sandwich, content to eat one handed if it meant she could still hold the baby. “I’m betting Abi’s genetics win out, though, which will mean this little munchkin is going to look way more like you than Hannibal.”

Will bit into a sandwich, eyes on Mischa as he chewed slowly. He almost expected Abigail to make another appearance, as if summoned by the topic of conversation, eager to rake him over the coals.

“It’s okay to be happy about that, you know,” Beverly pointed out, misunderstanding why he was suddenly so quiet. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“No, you’re right. Maybe it’ll make things easier for her once she’s in school. People can assume what they want, and she won’t have to explain that her mom was murdered, and her real dad is in the nuthouse.”

The frown on Beverly’s face was epic, enough so that Will had to fight off a bit of inappropriate laughter, even as he inwardly cringed over his own words. “You’re her _real_ dad, idiot. Well, one of them, anyway. Anderson is just a sperm donor.”

“Hannibal has kept in touch,” Will blurted, wanting to change the topic before there were more lectures about the true meaning of fatherhood, and not doing a very good job of it.

“Seriously? What, like pen pals?” Beverly asked around a mouthful of food, adding, “These are awesome, by the way. I love fresh dill.”

“Worse, he visits. At least twice now that I know of.”

Beverly chewed, face scrunched up as if smelling something unpleasant. “Why?”

Will regretted having said anything, because he wasn’t sure how to answer her. He couldn’t exactly say that Hannibal wasn’t anything approaching normal, that he was intelligent in some very wrong, dangerous ways, especially when bored and at loose ends because Will had come along and spoiled his favorite hobby for him.

He had his own suspicions regarding Samuel, and liked none of them, but with their current uneasy truce he didn’t feel in a position to make demands or ultimatums. It was looming on the horizon, though, and Will was certain Hannibal felt it as much as he did.

“Professional curiosity, I think,” Will answered, which was true in some ways, if you kept in mind that killing was the profession Will was referring to.

“Ugh, that guy gives me the creeps. You never saw the videos. Sure, his brother was crazier, I’ll give you that, but something about how calm and almost serene Anderson was about manipulating and killing people makes me think he’s the worse of the two of them.”

Unable to help himself, Will leaned across the distance separating them, scooping Mischa up despite the little noise of protest Beverly made, his heart hammering in his chest. “Can we not talk about this in front of her? I know it’s crazy, but…”

“No, no, you’re right! I’m sorry, why are we even talking about this? Okay, change of topic. Um…” She looked around, at a loss, and then was laughing. “Oh my god, how messed up are we? The only stuff coming to mind involves crime scenes!”

Will smiled weakly, rubbing his cheek against the top of Mischa’s head. “It’s fine. I just… sometimes I lie awake at night, worrying about what we’re going to tell Mischa when she’s finally old enough to start asking why she doesn’t have a mom like the other kids.”

“Well, Aunty Bev will have given her some awesome books with same sex parents, for a start.”

“Aunty Bev?”

Beverly rolled her eyes, and Will felt some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “You love it. And, look, I know it’s all scary, and your situation isn’t exactly normal, but I also know you and Hannibal love that little girl like it’s what you were born to do. It’ll all work out, you’ll see.”

Mischa squirmed in his arms, her fat little legs kicking energetically as she watched Beverly digging into the picnic basket, exclaiming in delight when finding dessert was waiting for them, and oddly enough he found himself almost believing Beverly. Almost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will had expected those moments before heading to bed to be the most gut wrenching of the day, considering what had transpired, but oddly enough this hadn’t been the case. Ever since The Morning—Will gave it capital letters in his mind whenever he thought of it—there hadn’t been a need for awkwardness, as Hannibal had simply waited at least an hour before coming to bed, meaning Will was already in the dark, under covers, and no conversation or eye contact need take place. When he woke in the mornings, without fail, Hannibal’s side of the bed was unoccupied, the sheets cool to the touch.

By the middle of the second week, it was impossible to ignore the dark circles under Hannibal’s eyes, and Will began wondering how much sleep the doctor was actually getting. He never complained, just kept to the schedule, and they’d somehow reached some point where Will no longer felt like they were tiptoeing around each other. He supposed the practicality of tag teaming dirty diapers helped, Hannibal still insistent that Mischa spend time with both of them, preferably all three of them together.

With all this in mind, it was not entirely surprising to find Hannibal asleep on the couch when Will returned home from his lunch date. What was surprising was the way his heart lurched at the sight, a long missed tenderness churning up inside him.

The book Hannibal had been reading was still open, although rather precariously balanced on his stomach, one elegant hand curled atop the pages, the other tucked up near his head. His lips were parted just a bit, his breathing slow and regular, hair having escaped his meticulous control over it, bangs sweeping down over Hannibal’s forehead.

He looked younger like this, more like the man Will remembered falling in love with, and he couldn’t quite keep himself from standing there to watch as Hannibal napped. There was the temptation to touch, to see if he could get away with stroking Hannibal’s cheek in order to wake him, but Will didn’t want to see the sleepy openness in Hannibal’s eyes only to have the man bristle, and bring down the walls again.

“I miss you,” he whispered instead, heart beating a wild tattoo against his ribs.

It was past Mischa’s nap time, though, and she began making fussy, annoyed noises, her face scrunched up in adorable irritation. At the first sound she made, Hannibal’s eyes were fluttering open, and Will found himself pinned in place when Hannibal actually smiled at finding them standing there.

“Was your picnic satisfactory?”

Will watched as Hannibal set the book aside, stretching before smoothing his hair back in place, and wondered again at the strange sort of middle ground they’d recently found themselves occupying. It was almost suspicious, and he couldn’t quite trust that it was real, kept waiting for Hannibal to casually mention having killed someone; it would explain his improved mood.

Then again, it was entirely possible that the change was in Will, and Hannibal was merely responding to it. Despite his protestations, and the fact that they’d actually discussed very little of importance to Will’s way of thinking, he’d found himself looking forward to the twice weekly visits with Bedelia.

Maybe it was just that he hadn’t had a panic attack since his first visit, or that he was actually getting out of the house, back out into the world in little ways. None of it changed his situation, exactly, but he’d certainly felt less crushed by the weight of his knowledge as of late.

“Will?”

He gave a little start of surprise, having forgotten that Hannibal had asked him a question. “Sorry, um, actually, it was nice. Really nice. Thanks again for the help.”

Hannibal nodded, rising to his feet and approaching Will almost cautiously. “My pleasure,” he murmured, and Will held his breath, thinking for a moment that Hannibal was going to lean in and kiss him. Instead, he dropped a kiss atop Mischa’s head, then carefully stepped clear of Will’s personal space, heading out of the room.

“We could do something like that,” Will blurted, and Hannibal paused in the doorway, his back to Will and his shoulders rigid. “Just the three of us, maybe the dogs, too. Mischa seemed to like the park.”

When he turned back around to face Will, Hannibal’s expression was carefully neutral. It wasn’t the cold distance Will had come to expect, but almost hopeful, yet cautious, as if waiting for Will to follow up the suggestion with some sort of accusation. Will maintained the eye contact, and hoped Hannibal could see this for the olive branch it was.

“I would like that,” he answered, momentarily worrying at his lower lip. “Very much, in fact.”

“Good, great,” Will stammered, feeling incredibly awkward.

Hannibal watched him for a long, silent moment, before taking a step back into the room. “Shall we put Mischa down for her nap?”

He hadn’t said together, but Will had heard the word nonetheless. After taking a deep, fortifying breath, Will nodded his reply and followed Hannibal upstairs, feeling something strangely approaching content for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Will finally got his lunch with Beverly! I missed you, Aunty Bev. Also, it is nice to see Will feeling less crushed by reality. She should just move in with them, make it her own reality TV show. I can see her eating popcorn, following them around the house. "Kiss! C'mon, kiss already!"
> 
> Hannibal better watch himself, with his little emotional affair with Samuel. *side eyes him*


	10. Hands in the Dark

Hannibal carefully brought the fork to his mouth, gracefully turning the silverware as if dancing, the fork catching and reflecting the candlelight as Will swallowed around the lump in his throat, unable to look away. Hannibal’s eyes were hooded, his nostrils flaring slightly as the morsel vanished, lost behind lips, and teeth. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, his eyes flashing much as the silverware had, quite lost to his contemplation.

Will was unable to look away, wasn’t sure he wanted the ability to do so, almost preferring his role as captive audience. Nothing physical held him in place, and yet he squirmed and heaved in his chair to the right of Hannibal as if tight leather bands encircled him, keeping him from leaving his seat.

This was not the first time he had had such a dream, and Will was certain it wouldn’t be the last, but something was altogether different this time around. For a start, his customary revulsion was altogether absent, alarmingly so. The quickening of his pulse had everything to do with the way the lighting highlighted the curve of Hannibal’s cheekbones, the movement of his mouth, and the way his long fingers curled around the handle of the fork.

Across from him, seated to Hannibal’s left, Abigail toyed with her own meal as if bored, taking occasional bites with an uncharacteristic lack of appreciation for what was on her plate. Samuel Anderson was beside her, following Hannibal’s lead and tucking in with what could only be described as restrained enthusiasm, carefully savoring each bite, eyes darting to the man seated at the head of the table, as if worried he might offend. Perhaps Samuel was simply eager to be noticed.

This was also a new development. Typically these dream meals involved him, Hannibal, and a seemingly neverending flow of abhorrent food passing from plate, to fork, to mouth. Abigail only occasionally made an appearance, usually acting much as she had in life; quietly looking to Hannibal as if he was her savior.

The younger of the two Anderson brothers had never been invited to dinner before, and this was the first Will had seen Samuel since their last dream encounter during the Puppet Master case. He’d actually been relieved when his subconscious finally stopped pairing them off for uncomfortable conversations, and wasn’t excited to pick up where they had left off. In fact, seeing him seated at the table felt vulgar, and Will’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Feeling the intensity with which he was being watched, Samuel looked up, his own eyes filled with an inordinate amount of sympathy.

“How have you been coping, Mr. Graham?” he asked, polite and respectful in his tone.

There was something about him that rankled, and had done so since the hospital, from the first moment he had laid eyes on a vibrantly bloodied Hannibal, fresh from a fight with the younger man. Seeing the surveillance footage of the fight itself hadn’t helped any, and it was no surprise that his subconscious had latched on this interloper, finding him the perfect vessel for forcing Will to confront those very things in Hannibal he was most desperate to turn a blind eye to.

As it always had within his dreams, Samuel’s voice served as a catalyst, and Will found himself no longer immobilized. Stubbornness, indignation churned within as his hands reached out for his own silverware, eyes never leaving the young man’s face as he speared a bit of the food and brought it to his lips. He wasn’t sure why, but in the moment it felt important to show Samuel how very well he was doing, that he was right where he belonged, while Samuel was, in fact, intruding. Again.

“At least we’re not on a boat this time,” Samuel muttered, “I was getting sick of being drowned.”

“Shut up.”

Abigail sighed loudly, rolling her eyes at Will’s defensive display, while Hannibal reached out to place a hand gently to Will’s arm, stilling his movement before the food made it past his teeth. His eyes were warm, although sadness and concern could be seen within their depths as he studied Will.

“You have nothing to prove, Will,” he said softly, apologetically. “It is not to everyone’s liking. I would not wish you to do something you found distasteful, only for the thought of pleasing me.”

The fork and knife lowered slowly, and Will glanced at the table once more, eyes darting around as he studied the large serving platter taking up much of the table. Jacob Anderson’s head was proudly on display, surrounded by cooked portions of his flesh, paired with intricately carved and almost unidentifiable vegetables. Will looked back to his own plate, the glistening bit of meat still speared on the tines of his fork, eyes shifting to where Hannibal’s hand still pressed warmly against his arm.

When he looked up, Will found Hannibal still watching him, his own meal apparently forgotten. Will’s surprise only grew as Hannibal removed his hand in order to push himself back from the table, taking Will by the arm and leading him away, ignoring the noises of protest from Samuel and Abigail.

“Your food will get cold,” Will stammered, glancing over his shoulder as they left. Samuel looked cross over their departure, while Abigail continued prodding her food with disinterest.

“It is of no consequence.”

Will wanted to protest once more. He knew the risks that had been involved obtaining the main course, the level of care and skill that had gone into creating the meal, and was confused as to why Hannibal would abandon it all with such ease. His words died in his throat, though, when he felt Hannibal’s fingers slid warmly against his own, and then he was being led away by the hand.

It seemed they walked together in silence for quite some time, Will grateful for the fact that they were holding hands, as the path seemed particularly confusing, almost mazelike. He grew sick of the sight of hedges, felt boxed in by the canopy of trees, weary of peering through the darkness in the hopes of not catching himself on the endless supply of exposed roots, still uncertain of their destination.

He stumbled only once, but Hannibal caught him, holding him close for longer than was really necessary. He was warmth, and comfort, and Will pressed his face to the curve of Hannibal’s long neck, sighing wearily.

“Not much farther,” Hannibal assured him, and so Will allowed himself to be led along once again.

Hannibal had not been lying, and soon Will found himself blinking in confusion. They stumbled out of the woods and into a sunlit field, the flowers scattered around them in full bloom, the grass a vibrant shade of green, birds chirping happily. Night had been left somewhere behind, and it took several moments for Will’s eyes to adjust to the sunshine, even as he raised his face to the sun, allowing it to be warmed.

Hannibal tugged on his hand, pulling Will into the field, heading for where a picnic lunch had been set out. It was impossible not to smile, especially as he heard the familiar sound of dogs barking, his pack running through the grass to swarm around him, tails wagging happily.

Will crouched down, letting the dogs knock him into the grass, laughing as he rolled around with them, the sound of their excited breathing like music, his face scrunched up under the onslaught of licking.

“Better?”

“Much,” Will agreed, accepting the hand Hannibal had extended, allowing himself to be pulled back to his feet. Affection welled up within him, until Will felt his chest might burst from the pressure of it all, and so he cradled Hannibal’s face in his hands and kissed him.

They had shared many kisses in their time, but this was somehow different, and Will was unsure why. Hannibal was so careful, almost unnaturally reserved, his hands remaining at his sides, although his mouth was warm and pliant against Will’s own.

The hesitance was unacceptable, and Will made a soft noise of protest as he sucked Hannibal’s lower lip between his teeth, biting down lightly, ultimately sighing in pleasure as Hannibal began to participate more enthusiastically. Will carded his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, one hand curled possessively around the back of his neck, while the other rested at the small of Hannibal’s back, pulling them closer together.

Will had no idea how long they stood there, kissing in the sunshine, the dogs chasing each other merrily around the clearing, but was brought out of his lovesick stupor by the sound of a small, familiar voice calling, “Dada!”

A strange feeling of déjà vu washed over Will as the little girl made a beeline for them. For a moment she had blonde hair, but it had to have been a trick of the light, because once she tumbled close enough to be pulled up into Hannibal’s waiting arms Will found her hair was a mess of dark brown curls.

A warmth that had nothing to do with the sunshine flooded through Will as he watched Hannibal press a kiss to the little girl’s cheek, but then she was reaching, her blue eyes wide and clear and bright, and Will pulled her into his arms.

“Mischa,” he cooed, “you’re getting so big!”

She just laughed, and squirmed, and let him kiss her face before trying to get back down so she could run off after the dogs. He watched her playing, and couldn’t help but laugh, even as he tried to recall if he had ever had that sort of carefree exuberance growing up.

Will didn’t want the dream to end, but of course it did, something from the real world calling for his attention, dragging him from the sunshine and happiness. When his eyes opened, the room was still dark, and Hannibal was slowly extracting himself from the bed.

“Wait,” Will murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

Beside him, Hannibal stilled, his back rigid as he perched on the edge of the bed, awaiting further instructions. Will struggled, managed to sit up, and looked at the clock. It was just shy of five in the morning, and he realized this must be the time Hannibal customarily snuck out of the bed, so as to avoid a repeat of their awful morning together.

“You don’t have to leave,” Will said, clearing his throat. If anything, this seemed to cause Hannibal to tense up more. “I mean, you should do what you’re comfortable with, but…”

Hannibal turned his head slightly. “But?”

Will exhaled shakily. “Selfishly, I want you to stay.”

For an excruciatingly long moment, Will felt certain Hannibal was going to decline the offer, but then he slid back beneath the covers, lying on his back as if moving into a more comfortable position might break whatever spell Will was under.

“Thanks,” Will said, settling back down. He curled on his side so that he was facing Hannibal, sleepiness beginning to wash over him again. “You and Mischa were just in my dream,” he murmured. “She was older, though.”

“How old?” Hannibal asked after a prolonged silence.

“Three, maybe? I’m not sure. She was beautiful, though.”

“Of course.”

Will smiled at this, letting his eyes close. “Happy, too. We need to give her that, Hannibal. I can’t… I don’t want her to ever be lonely, or afraid.”

He didn’t need to say that was what his own childhood had been like, and in many ways he was still more comfortable not knowing what, exactly, had transpired during Hannibal’s own upbringing to lead him down the path he’d taken. Will only knew that with each day that passed, he thought less of himself and more of her, and all of the ways he wanted to make certain growing up would be an easier time of it for her than it had been for him.

“We can only protect her from so much,” Hannibal answered, his voice sounding sad in a way that had become all too familiar.

“I know.” Will opened his eyes again, and found that Hannibal had his head turned on the pillow, his expression hard to read in the darkness of the bedroom. “We’ll do it together, right?”

“Yes.”

There had been no hesitation before Hannibal answered, and Will allowed himself to appreciate this, and the accompanying comfort it inspired. Where and when, exactly, had his life taken such a drastic turn that a promise in the dark from a killer could make his heart beat faster, make his palms itch with the urge to reach out and touch.

It was too soon, though. If he reached for Hannibal again, it had to be with the full intention of following through, and in a permanent capacity, or else he’d likely never have another chance. Instead, he’d settle for watching in the dark, holding on to the dream memory of Hannibal and Mischa and the field.

Hannibal’s eyes seemed to be growing heavier as the minutes ticked on, so Will finally said the rest of what was on his mind before he managed to chicken out.

“I hate seeing you so exhausted. Maybe we could try going to sleep and waking up together again,” he suggested, hating how timid he sounded. “Only if you wanted to, though. I know I hurt you…”

“Hush,” Hannibal interrupted, cutting him off before he could apologize. There was nothing sharp, or commanding in his tone, though, his voice soft with affection. “Go back to sleep, Will.”

Will opened his mouth to protest, but beneath the covers he felt the tentative brush of Hannibal’s fingertips against his own. Worried Hannibal might pull away, he quickly twined their fingers together, thinking again of his dream as they held hands in the dark. He waited, expecting to feel the inevitable withdrawal, but instead found himself drifting back to sleep with the warm press of Hannibal’s skin against his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! So, these last two weeks or so I feel like I've been a ghost online, because life has gotten crazy-insane busy. If I've taken forever to get back to anyone, I apologize x's 1,000,000. Also, I woke up hungry enough to eat Jacob Anderson, so I'm going to take Will's now emptied seat at Hannibal's table, and dig in.


	11. Phantom Pain

As he listened to one of his patients prattle on, Hannibal found his mind wandering, and struggled to master his thoughts to the extent that he would be in a position to respond appropriately when required to do so.

He hadn’t quite expected it to be so difficult returning to his profession full time. Some of what he was feeling could be attributed to being ‘out of practice’ due to his time away while caring for Will and Mischa, but the greater underlying issue was his own motivations for becoming a psychiatrist in the first place.

There was no joy, or purpose in this work; he lacked the necessary desire to help people. His career had been nothing more than a means to an end, an opportunity to dabble, meddle, manipulate. As a result, a number of patients had been kind enough to leave him great sums of money upon their deaths, while others still were out in the world, little ticking time bombs, waiting to come to the attention of Jack Crawford.

For now, his bank accounts were in good shape, but he had expensive taste, and the additional burden of supporting Will and Mischa. As it stood, Will had most likely made some forgiving assumptions, deciding Hannibal must have inherited some family fortune, once upon a time. There had been no questions as of yet as to how, precisely, he afforded much of what he had, but Will wasn’t foolish enough not to put two and two together if Hannibal continued on spending money without a care, and future patients continued the trend of naming Hannibal sole beneficiary in their last will and testament.

Cultivating and nurturing a future generation of killers was also out of the question; there were no red flags as of yet, but Jack was quite clever, and in possession of a healthy level of distrust. More of them would rear their ugly heads over the years, little dotted lines leading back to him. If the scales of suspicion tipped too far, nothing would stop Crawford from getting to the bottom of the mystery of Hannibal Lecter. While Hannibal was quite willing to kill the F.B.I. agent in order to maintain his freedom, there was no doubt it would lead to the very life he had been working so hard to avoid.

No sign of Hannibal’s displeasure was visible to his patient as he struggled to listen, and accept that his professional future was doomed to dullness, but annoyance was there all the same. It seemed for every bit of ground he gained with Will, another sacrifice was necessary. He wondered if any trace of the man he was would be left behind in Will’s wake.

Professionally speaking, there was but one shining exception to the tediousness of his new life, and that was Samuel Anderson. It was unlikely their relationship could continue on much longer. Even now, he felt the inherent danger tangled up in his fascination with the young killer. He had, perhaps, already been too bold. There was nothing for it, what was done was done. All that remained was to see what came of the seeds he had planted, and to enjoy the harvest as best he could.

It was still uncertain whether Will would return to work, and when that might transpire. Hannibal could admit to some small measure of jealousy, as it meant Will’s days were free for Mischa. It was a feeling he could live with, as he’d much rather Mischa be under the watchful eye of her father; the idea of a stranger spending these important formative years with their daughter rankled.

The discomfort brought on by tedium was easier to manage when at home, surrounded by Mischa, Will, and the rituals of family life. Something had changed there, either as a result of Will’s sessions with Bedelia, accepting the mantle of fatherhood, the passage of time, or the careful distance Hannibal had been maintaining out of sheer self preservation. Regardless of the cause, the result was an easing of the ever present tension, to the extent that Hannibal found himself eager to return home at the end of the day, rather than tensing against the inevitable.

That morning had been unexpectedly pleasing, waking as he did to find Will watching him, eyes bright beneath dark lashes, his cheeks flushing a particularly fetching shade of pink upon realizing he’d been caught in the act.

There was a carefulness surrounding their time together, one that had little to do with conspicuous loathing, and more to do with each of them adjusting to the tenuous peace they’d been experiencing in each other’s company as of late. Hannibal found himself once again on tenterhooks, not because of the palpable anger and disgust he’d come to expect from Will, but because of its absence.

It was safe to say their initial courtship had been unconventional, possibly even classifiable as antagonistic. Will had all but thrust himself upon Hannibal, challenging him, the two of them wasting no time to think before acting. He had found himself incapable of resisting the animalistic urge to take Will; they had taken of each other, in all honesty, and he hadn’t been the same since.

While the memory was still powerful enough to stoke the flames of Hannibal’s desire, some part of him had always wished there had been more opportunity to savor the anticipation of their union. In some ways, their current holding pattern was granting him his wish, albeit late and under less than favourable circumstances. Still, that he found himself in the position to have any hope at all in this regard was reason enough for celebration.

And so he found himself in possession of hope once again, which was as unsettling as it was uplifting. It was delicate, deserving of care and respect, which in turn led him to questioning his ability to continue on in the guise of a psychiatrist. He knew himself well enough to understand there was only so much he could bend, before he simply broke. Happiness was all well and good, but an artist’s heart pounded away in Hannibal’s chest, while a Machiavellian mind occupied the bone arena of his skull.

Boredom would be his downfall. Minutes, hours, and days, with too much time to drift within his mind, crafting landscapes strewn with viscera, breathing air thickly perfumed with blood. Even now, he longed in a way that was more akin to those basic biological needs than heart’s fancy. Death was air, sustenance, light and release, calling to him like a Siren’s song. If he did not heed his own misgivings, he would find himself dashed upon the rocks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, upon returning home, Hannibal had the pleasure of finding Will’s face alight with pleasure, sprawled across the floor, entertaining Mischa while she rested on her stomach, which was required for her to continue strengthening the muscles of her neck, shoulder, and chubby little arms. She had hated it, when they first began, but her progress had been excellent, resulting in her having more fun while in this position.

“Hey,” Will called, looking up from his position on the floor.

Not too long ago, his expression might have darkened, closing off upon seeing Hannibal there, but there was none of that. He looked genuinely happy as he scrambled to his feet, swinging Mischa up into his arms. She chirped and burbled happily, making excited little noises of pleasure over the movement and attention.

To his surprise, after hoisting her into the air for another round of happy noises, Will held Mischa out to Hannibal, his smile still in place. For her part, Mischa reached out, then snuggled herself contentedly against Hannibal’s shoulder once she was back where she belonged.

“She missed you,” Will commented, his smile shifting to something shier. His eyes shifted, no longer meeting Hannibal’s, but there was no sense that he was troubled. Perhaps, surprisingly, Will had missed him as well.

Hannibal showered her with affection, as well as a smattering of French and Lithuanian endearments, before refocusing on Will. “I suspect she will begin crawling soon.”

“Really?” Will chewed on his lower lip, unable to keep himself from running a hand over Mischa’s fuzzy head. “Well, if it happens and you’re not here, I’ll get video.”

“That would be appreciated.” Hannibal suspected there might be a handful of firsts he was required to miss, if they continued on in this way, and the jealousy flared up strongly before he was able to tamp it back down.

He headed for the kitchen, Will trailing behind him, several of the dogs following suit. Hannibal took a moment to appreciate the lack of verbal communication required for them to pass Mischa from one set of arms to another, while Hannibal shucked his suit jacket, and Will settled her into her little chair. The heating and exchange of the bottle was also akin to a choreographed dance number, comforting in its familiarity.

Once Mischa was settled, and chugging away at her bottle, Hannibal donned his apron and began assembling the ingredients for their dinner. This was yet another new, pleasant development. As long as he steered clear of red meat, and Will was present to see the food prepared, he would dine with Hannibal.

The first handful of times had been stressful for each of them, Will needing to excuse himself on more than one occasion. Hannibal suspected Bedelia was behind it all, encouraging Will to face a fear head on. He wondered what excuse Will had presented for his newfound disgust, whether much elaboration was required, or Bedelia instinctively skirted the messy details, focusing instead on the feelings surrounding the issue.

This, at least, was returned to him, the joy of cooking more elaborate fair, channeling his creativity onto a plate, even if it paled in comparison to the days of old, a watered down imitation of greatness. He supposed there would have been a time when even this would have felt like salt in a wound, but Hannibal could admit that this disappointment was mitigated by the opportunity to perform for Will.

Hannibal glanced up from the vegetables he was chopping to find himself being observed, Will looking away as if caught in the act, before glancing back up and allowing one corner of his mouth to tick up in a smile.

He looked much improved as of late, something that surprised Hannibal every time he looked at the man. Will’s face was no longer gaunt, for a start, the dark, angry circles gone from beneath his eyes, the waxy complexion a thing of the past. There was still something haunting him, a darkness carried within his heart, flaring up from time to time, but it had been days and days since Hannibal had caught him staring wide eyed with fear at some corner of the room, confronted with a horror only he could perceive.

Again, the sense of hope, and the unfamiliar clutch of happiness at his heart, and Hannibal struggled with each sensation, unsure which was preferred. Even in his happiest moments with Will, there had been a pervading sadness, born of the knowledge that Will gave of himself without knowing the truth. And while he had oft dreamt of being accepted for who and what he was, Hannibal was still at a loss for how to handle that reality, if it came to pass.

“How was work?” Will asked, one hand petting Winston, while the other held Mischa’s bottle steady.

Hannibal smiled, caught out by the question, his mind conjuring up imagery of white picket fences, and Will in a house frock. He set his knife down in order to pour himself a glass of wine—perhaps answer enough in its own right—pausing to inhale the bouquet before savoring a mouthful.

“Shall I be honest?”

“I’d rather you were,” Will answered, although he sounded hesitant.

Hannibal sighed, setting down his glass of wine before finally answering. “Tedious. The work holds little interest for me.”

Will’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

With a nod of affirmation, Hannibal returned to the task at hand, a strange nervousness now present. Will had gone quiet and introspective, his eyes losing focus. After a long period of silence, he cleared his throat, and asked, “You miss it, don’t you?”

The flutter of panic again, unfamiliar and unwanted, but nothing good would come of lies. “It is much like a phantom limb… intermittent pain and discomfort, with no foreseeable way to ease the suffering.” Hannibal could hear Will’s teeth click together in surprise; perhaps he hadn’t expected such honesty. “I believe you have, to the best of your abilities, seen the world through my eyes on at least one occasion?”

“Yes…”

“Then I hope you won’t think me arrogant when I state I am in possession of an altogether unique view of the world. If my predilections didn’t trouble you so, I would continue on as I always have; I am woefully incapable of guilt over my actions.”

When he looked up from the cutting board, Will was watching him with wide eyes, the pulse jumping in his neck. Hannibal prepared himself, expecting the bottle to be placed on the table, for Will to run from the room in a panic. Instead, he watched, waited.

“Go on,” he finally said, sensing Hannibal’s reticence. “I… This isn’t going to work between us if the only way I cope is to pretend I don’t know what you’ve done. I can’t promise I won’t freak out, but it isn’t right for you to have to keep this all to yourself.”

“Very well,” Hannibal replied, suddenly unsure of himself. “You asked of work. I find my patients insufferable, mewling creatures, obsessed with pettiness, and lacking in mettle. With the limitations I’ve imposed on myself, they are of no worth.”

“Wow.”

Hannibal wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it hadn’t been laughter. He looked up, eyes sharp, surprised to find Will struggling to maintain his composure, and failing rather spectacularly.

“I’m sorry,” he swore, “but… That wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. Don’t stop, though.”

“What more is there to say?”

It was to be an evening of surprises, for Will did indeed set aside Mischa’s bottle, now mostly finished, but instead of running away, he crossed the room to stand closer to Hannibal. “Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

Images flashed behind Hannibal’s eyes, great compositions that must never see the light of day if he was to continue on this path with Will and Mischa.

“You don’t have to answer now,” Will said, his voice gentle. “Give it some thought, though. Despite my own feelings on the matter, you’ve made a big sacrifice. For us. Maybe there’s another way to ease that suffering?”

With that said, Will returned to Mischa, leaving Hannibal surprised, and lost to his own speculation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, still behind with replying to comments, sorry friends!! I've been reading them all and feeling showered with love, though. Actually so behind that I had to finish this chapter up around 6:30 this morning. *shifty eyes* Please let me know if there are typos, something is batshit crazy. I'm running on no time and no sleep.
> 
> Meanwhile, what's this? Will and Hannibal are having REAL conversations? Progress indeed. They need to hold hands some more, though. Then maybe some other bits... *cough*


	12. Bookends

“I think I’m coming to terms with the realization that Hannibal needs death in order to survive.”

Sometimes, Will almost resented Bedelia’s unflappability. She was so very good at projecting calm that he’d become determined to ruffle her feathers at least once before their time together ended. This remark, coming as it did after some pleasantries, did naught but cause her to raise one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, a sign he should continue.

“It might even be a physical need, rather than a psychological issue. More often than not, I find myself questioning his humanity in general.”

“You say this, hoping I’ll challenge your statement,” Bedelia replied after a moment’s consideration. “You wish to defend his need for death—as you refer to it—to me, in an attempt to convince yourself it is something outside of his control.”

Will smiled, because it was preferable to grimacing in front of her. “He controls it remarkably well, if you must know.”

“Does he?”

There was a healthy level of disbelief in her tone, mixed with a touch of curiosity. Will was still regularly confused by his own reactions and responses to Bedelia. There were times he felt they were on opposite sides of a very personal war, which made it difficult to hold onto the understanding that she pushed him for his own good.

Still, she had a point. It was surprising to him the number of times he found himself purposefully casting a disparaging light onto Hannibal, only to defend him to Bedelia moments later.

“He does.”

Bedelia pinned him with her icy gaze as she slowly settled more comfortably in her chair, adjusting the lines of her skirt once she was finished. Her hair shone quite golden where the light from the windows fell upon her, dust motes hanging visibly in the air, the rich colors of the room’s decor and her own clothing combining to conjure up a strange sense of surreality.

He knew if he closed his eyes, Will would feel another chair beneath him. During his visits, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for Hannibal’s office to unfold around him, until the room was split in twain, a stitched together reality of psychiatric bookends. Half the time he expected to find one of Hannibal’s little oddities—statues, musical instruments, baubles—displayed in Bedelia’s office, as if it had been there all along.

It was a strange sensation, sitting there surrounded by the familiarity of Hannibal’s office, only to find Bedelia’s spread out in front of him, mostly for how comforting it was. Oddly enough, it reminded him of his discussions with the other Samuel Anderson, the two of them sharing a boat and speaking of lines in the sand. The hallucination, or whatever you wanted to call it, felt almost as if his subconscious was determined to remind him which side of the line he belonged on.

“Will, I feel more and more as if you’re looking for my permission to continue on in your relationship with Hannibal.”

His heart lurched, speeding up as if he had just been running. It was difficult not to wipe his palms against his thighs, rid himself of the clammy feeling overtaking him.

“I don’t need your permission.”

“No, you do not,” she agreed, her mouth pursed. “Which is why I find myself curious. You speak of Hannibal needing death, and I’m left to wonder what he has done to cause you to feel so guilty about loving him.”

Will struggled against the urge to bolt from the room, tried to pull a false sense of calm around him like a blanket, wishing to block out her question, and all the horrible answers pulsing alarmingly in his brain.

Bedelia was suddenly being reclassified as a threat, adrenaline dumping into his system as he contemplated whether or not she was, in fact, a well disguised viper luring him into a false sense of security before striking. Hannibal had some small measure of trust for the woman, but how exactly had she earned this privilege? There was a great deal Will didn’t know about her, about the past she shared with Hannibal, and battling his paranoia was growing more difficult by the minute. If he began searching her office for recording devices, he was guaranteed to come off looking like a lunatic.

“Nothing that would surprise you,” Will finally answered, relieved by how even his voice sounded. “I’m sure you’re well aware of his morbidity. My own inability to avoid being surrounded by death is the reason we met in the first place.”

“Are you concerned that Hannibal will push you back into that world before you’re ready?”

Will ran a hand over his face, expecting scruff but finding smooth skin instead. He’d been shaving regularly, having grown overly fond of the way Mischa’s head felt tucked under his chin, and not wishing to irritate her sensitive skin with stubble.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready, not that I was ready before. This, all of this, despite his promises, Jack couldn’t protect me from myself, from all the little pieces those killers left behind. I can’t go back to that, carry that with me and be around Mischa and not… taint her, somehow.”

“I still feel you’re trying to convince yourself by convincing me,” Bedelia replied. She studied him, and Will knew her next question would be designed to get a reaction out of him, to test his progress. “What of Abigail Hobbs? Has she made any appearances as of late?”

Will pointedly ignored the corner of the room where Abigail sat, watching him with eyes devoid of the fondness he’d always found while she was still alive. “Not as of late.”

“Good.”

Will wasn’t sure why he had told Bedelia about seeing Abigail in the first place, especially since he’d been lying about her ever since confessing. Although she remained sullen, and for the most part silent, she had yet to leave him in peace for more than a handful of days at a time.

More than ever, he was convinced she was only there because—regardless of how her alienness and cold hostility affected him—the idea of never seeing her again was heartbreaking. When Mischa was around, his mind had no need to project her, and so more often than not the only time he saw her these days was during his sessions with Bedelia.

It left him both uncomfortable and relieved. Relaxing had become much easier now that he’d stopped expecting to find her waiting for him in the house, watching him with jealousy in her eyes as he parented her child. Each time he left Bedelia’s, though, it felt like he was abandoning her, like it might be the last time he ever saw her, as if she somehow still existed independent of himself.

Will hung his head a bit, allowed the hurt, hollowed out sensation to flare brightly in his chest. From the corner of his eye, he could make out the shape of her as she rose from her seat, and made her way out of the room.

“I miss her. I get that nothing in life is fair, but I still hate myself sometimes for how much I love being Mischa’s father. It feels like I stole something from Abigail.”

“Survivor’s guilt isn’t uncommon in these situations. The love you feel for your daughter is something to be cherished. Abigail left explicit instructions with her lawyer for a reason, and that was because she knew you and Hannibal would give her child the love she deserved, if anything should happen to her.”

Will smiled, nodded, didn’t bother to correct her. Abigail had specifically named _Hannibal_ as Mischa’s guardian should anything happen. In his less forgiving moments, Will had almost accused Hannibal of having a hand in all of this somehow.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, he could easily recall Hannibal telling him about Abigail’s sudden need to see a lawyer, because of her unfounded concerns surrounding Alana’s stance on her pregnancy. The idea of Alana scheming to steal Abigail’s child was laughable, but it wasn’t until she’d visited Hannibal’s lawyer that Abigail seemed to relax, and begin working towards regaining a comfortable relationship with Alana.

At the time, Will had assumed Abigail had simply put something in place to prevent Alana from being around the baby once it was born, but instead she’d named Hannibal as the child’s legal guardian, in case Alana had her sent back to the psychiatric facility after she'd given birth. He doubted Abigail had known her own life was in danger, and that she wouldn’t even be around to see her daughter brought into the world.

This didn’t help dissuade the guilt he often felt when holding Mischa, or when he found himself thrilling at filling the role of father. The idea of her giving birth had seemed so terrifying when Abigail was alive, leaving him squirming in discomfort when people asked after her due date, or the pregnancy in general. He was realizing it had always been because fatherhood was something he’d desired, and never felt himself worthy of pursuing.

In that moment, all thoughts of Abigail were shoved roughly aside, and Will was thankful her echo had left the room. He didn’t want her there to witness the smile he couldn’t contain when he pictured Mischa, wondering what she and Hannibal were doing.

The rest of the session with Bedelia was certain to drag on painfully, as his heart and his mind thought only of his family, and returning to them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal had given Will’s suggestion a great deal of thought, all roads of speculation leading him back to the same place, and so it seemed only fitting that he find himself the recipient of a surprise visit from Jack Crawford, and Beverly Katz.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

Beverly laughed either at how odd it was to hear such sweet words from the intimidating figure of Jack, or because of Hannibal’s own little twitch of displeasure over the baby talk voice being used on his daughter.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he managed as he ushered them into his office. A quick glance at the clock showed him he had half an hour or so before Will finished his appointment with Bedelia, and came to collect Mischa. “How can I help you?”

Hannibal made no protest when Beverly offered to take Mischa, as the child was familiar with her, and happy to be swept into the woman’s arms. Beverly was also respectful enough to speak to Mischa as if she was fully capable of understanding what was being said.

“Sorry if we’re interrupting,” Jack said as he slid his hands in his pockets.

“Not at all. I’m between appointments, at the moment.”

“I won’t take up much of your time, doctor.” Once the good natured pleasantries had been taken care of, Jack’s expression grew serious. “I’m hoping to get an update on Will.”

Hannibal settled back against the edge of his desk, head cocked slightly to the side. “I believe Will would be in the best position to answer that question.”

Jack extended a hand, as if to make it clear he had only the best intentions. “I’m just looking to test the waters, Dr. Lecter, not fishing for details. Do you know if he has any intention to return to work?”

“It would be presumptuous of me to answer on his behalf.” Jack frowned. “Am I to assume this means you require assistance, and are eager to avail yourself of Will’s expertise?”

“It might,” Jack agreed cautiously. “If he’s ready.”

“And if he is not?”

“Well,” Jack shrugged. “Then I guess I’m out of luck, and so are the families being killed.”

Across the room, Beverly bounced Mischa in her arms, and Hannibal thought again of his conversation with Will, the encouragement to seek some other way to ease the suffering.

“I am happy to discuss this with Will, in private,” Hannibal said after the silence grew heavy between them. “I suspect you won’t be surprised by his answer.”

“That’s what I was afraid of, doctor,” Jack answered, his tone ominous. It seemed as if the blame would fall to Will, rather than the F.B.I., when more people died. Hannibal wondered how it was Jack managed to catch killers before he’d taken Will on as a consultant.

“Might I propose a solution, Jack?” The agent tipped his head, and Hannibal continued. “I would wish to discuss this with Will before any work began, but perhaps I could serve in his stead.”

Jack seemed less than surprised by the offer, and Hannibal found himself wondering if this had been the man’s goal all along. While Will was wildly talented, he’d also posed an almost consistent risk to Jack’s career. The agent had been waiting for a breakdown, for the case that would finally push the profiler too far into the dark recesses of his mind.

While less imaginatively acrobatic, and far less empathic than Will, Hannibal was more steadfast in his demeanor, and of far more use when it came to testifying in court. Putting a doctor with his reputation on the stand gave the defense much less to work with, when attempting to discredit his contributions.

“You were of great help during the Puppet Master case,” Jack said, as if he was considering the offer. “I’d go so far as to say you’re the reason why Anderson pled guilty, and saved us the trouble of a lengthy trial.”

Beverly rolled her eyes for Hannibal’s benefit as she brought Mischa back to him. Jack smiled at the sight of Hannibal holding the child, but it failed to reach his eyes. “Maybe it’d be for the best.”

“Very well then,” Hannibal said, not backing down from Jack’s glare. “I shall discuss the matter with Will, and be in touch.”

If anything, Jack’s smile grew. “Please do, doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry this is a little late this morning! If anything, things have gotten busier! XD The good news is it seems as if next month I'll actually have some time freeing up in my schedule, allowing more than tiny, tiny opportunities for writing. Fingers crossed!
> 
> Meanwhile, what's this? Will, you adorable little father you. Want to be a stay at home dad, and let Hannibal go off and sniff dead bodies and stuff while you play with a baby? Of course you do. You can get back to lecturing a little later. Actually, how funny would it be to have him lecturing on awful murders with a baby strapped to his chest?
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there, as we have progress unfold!! Love you all.


	13. Conditions

“I like how he’s conveniently forgotten that you beat the piss out of a suspect in a parking garage. That entire case could have been in jeopardy.”

The fact that Will was correct helped little to soften Hannibal’s annoyance over the criticism. The only silver lining was that Will’s ire seemed entirely focused on Jack for a change.

“Did he bother to mention that at any point? How Anderson was sitting there, talking about how you attacked him unprovoked, all set to use it as a Get Out of Jail Free card?”

Hannibal sighed, eyes flicking over to the baby monitor resting on the coffee table. It would be a kindness if Mischa decided she was through with sleep, as Will was far more likely to be calm, and open minded if their daughter was in his arms.

“He did not.”

“Of course, because that’s Jack for you.”

Will stopped his pacing, tugging his glasses off of his face in order to rub at the bridge of his nose. The strangest thing about seeing Will so riled up was how it transformed him, so suddenly Hannibal felt the hours and days slipping away, leaving him once again with the Will who had not known, the vibrant, fascinating man he’d been unable to resist.

Hannibal drank in the sight of him, allowing the indulgence, not bothering to push away his body’s physical response for a change. The blood sang in his veins as he felt himself beginning to harden, imagining crossing the space between them to do as he pleased.

He would take Will by the scruff of the neck, tilt his head back in order to suck roughly at the spot just below his ear, a spot guaranteed to get a reaction. There would be no struggle when Hannibal crushed their mouths together, and he could almost feel the way Will’s body would shudder at the contact, the way his tongue would slide hotly against Hannibal’s own, could almost feel fingers sliding into his hair to greedily keep Hannibal from ending the kiss.

He imagined Will would straddle one of his thighs, rubbing himself shamelessly against Hannibal, hard and insistent and impatient in the way he only was when anger warred with his arousal. Hannibal could so easily conjure a memory of Will’s flushed face, his swollen lips, and hooded eyes.

“Did it ever occur to Jack that he needs to step up his game if the only way he can catch these killers is by using outside consultants?”

While the Will in his mind had all too eagerly allowed Hannibal to push him to his knees, had, in fact, all but torn open Hannibal’s pants in order to wrap his lips around the head of Hannibal’s cock, the Will of the present was flushed for entirely different reasons.

“I’ve wondered much the same myself,” Hannibal conceded. He crossed his legs in an attempt to hide his erection, adding, “If it distresses you to such an extent, I’ll simply decline the offer.”

At this, Will’s expression softened, the anger momentarily forgotten, as his eyes met Hannibal’s and held fast. Torturously, Will worried at his lower lip with his teeth, and Hannibal’s heart lurched with envy.

Hannibal had always thought Will beautiful, especially when so recklessly, openly displaying his emotions. This lust of his was quite unlike the longing that had kept him awake of an evening, back before he and Will had changed the dynamic of their relationship. It was harrowing, being in possession of intimate knowledge while lacking the ability to touch, to taste, to act.

He knew the boundaries of Will’s desire, how to keep things just the right side of rough in order to have him hard, and desperate beneath him. Knew the contours of Will’s palate, the way his cheeks looked when hollowed as he sucked hungrily on Hannibal’s cock. Knew how long it would take before sweat began to bead between his shoulder blades, and cause his lumbar curve to glisten. He was haunted by his own expertise, of what Will’s face would look like at the moment Hannibal fully penetrated him, as if he had been stranded somewhere for years, and finally someone had come to rescue him.

Hannibal wondered if Will could see any of this, as he continued to maintain their eye contact, almost hoped he could, that he would choose to act where Hannibal could not, tumble onto Hannibal’s lap and allow himself to be ravaged. If only given the opportunity, Hannibal would make him feel alive again, wouldn’t relent until Will was gasping Hannibal’s name as he came.

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

Hannibal smiled fondly as he answered, thinking little of the actual subject at hand, still wrapped warmly in his own imagination. “Have I not proven myself time and again your loving and devoted slave?”

Something of his thoughts must have come through in his voice, for Will’s eyes widened, even as his cheeks turned pink, one hand moving to the back of his neck as if embarrassed, and caught entirely off guard.

“Hannibal,” he began, his tone one of admonishment as he managed two steps forward before stalling.

Wishing to spare them both any awkwardness, Hannibal waved a hand dismissively. “A simple turn of phrase, Will. I know full well you have no desire to enslave me.” He carefully left off that he was quite capable of enslaving himself to Will all on his own. “I made no promises to Jack, aside from agreeing to discuss the matter with you.”

Will seemed to accept his words, and soon Hannibal found himself no longer alone as Will joined him on the couch. He turned, angling his body slightly so he could better face Will, one arm draped along the back of the couch. He loathed the distance between them, continued to fight admirably against his desire to pull Will into his arms.

Will exhaled loudly as he slid his glasses back in place, his head lolling back against the couch as if the wind had been taken out of his sails. “I’m being irrational, aren’t I?”

Hannibal hummed noncommittally, and appreciated the sight of Will’s mouth curving into a smile.

“It’s stupid. The last thing I want to do is work for Jack again. I’m not even sure when I’ll be ready for lecturing.”

“What you’re feeling is entirely appropriate, Will,” Hannibal said, pleased when Will turned his head in order to meet his eyes once again. “After all, no one likes to think themselves easily replaceable.”

In the room around them, the dogs dozed, their breathing seeming loud in the silence, as Will watched Hannibal, his expression surprisingly fond. “It would help, wouldn’t it?” he finally asked, his voice carefully controlled, even as the pulse jumped visibly in his neck.

Hannibal’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip before he answered, taking equal care with his words. “In some ways, it is more difficult. My curiosity can get the best of me, at times. There will be temptation.”

“To act?” Will swallowed, the bob of his Adam’s apple an enticing target for Hannibal’s tongue. He could almost feel the rasp of the slight stubble he would find there, and struggled with the urge to simply lean over and taste the salt of Will's skin. “Or to allow others to continue to act?”

“A combination of the two, if I’m honest.”

“To better focus their actions,” Will replied, his eyes growing distant, as if running over the past in his mind. Hannibal thought guiltily of Samuel Anderson, and what he might have set in motion there, before pushing it entirely from his mind. “Can you resist the urge?”

“There is much at stake, now. Jack may be foolish at times, but he is not blind. If I were to indulge myself while working with him, it would only be a matter of time before I found myself under suspicion.”

“Can’t say I like that idea much. Jack is relentless when he smells a rat.”

The brave smile Will had conjured slipped away when Hannibal added, “I cannot bare the thought of being separated from you and Mischa.”

Will was watching him with an almost alarming level of intensity, and Hannibal braced himself for rejection. That evening had found him, perhaps, too bold, too open in his unwavering affection for Will, and so he waited for Will to close down.

With a shaking hand, Will pulled the glasses from his face, cradled them in his lap, no longer facing Hannibal. He took a fortifying breath, then surprised Hannibal entirely by saying, “We should probably have an escape plan, just in case.”

“Excuse me?”

Will turned to face him again, an almost alien expression of determination taking residence upon his features. “If Jack finds out who you are, he’ll…” Will broke off, running a hand over his mouth as if to push away the words he’d been unable to say. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I can’t let you go. If he finds out, we’ll need to get out of the country.”

Hannibal felt a painful tightening in his chest, and it took every ounce of his control not to pull Will into his arms. Unable to restrain himself entirely, he shifted his arm from the back of the couch in order to run his knuckles along the contours of Will’s jaw, a quick, sweeping caress down the side of his face. As he watched, Will’s eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, his teeth once again maddeningly worrying at his lower lip.

“If it would bring you peace of mind, I can make preparations,” Hannibal offered quietly. “Although, I hope we shall never have need to make use of them.”

As Hannibal pulled his hand away, Will shifted a little closer on the couch, turning a bit, his eyes focused on his glasses where they still rested in his lap. “I think that’d be good. Better safe than sorry.”

When he looked up again, Will kept his eyes focused on Hannibal’s mouth, tension still hanging about him. “So, is this something you want? Can you resist the temptation?”

“There are far greater temptations I find myself warring with.” As if to make a point, he captured a bit of Will’s dark hair between his fingers. “By comparison, the other is paltry at best.”

Will met his eyes again, and Hannibal could see his dilated pupils, see the conflict in his eyes, but then Will was shifting even closer, stopping only when their knees bumped against each other. Tentatively, he placed a hand on Hannibal’s thigh, just above his knee, the contact almost alarmingly warm through the thin fabric of his pants.

“I have some stipulations,” Will said, his voice rough, his thumb rubbing back and forth distractingly against Hannibal’s thigh. By now, Hannibal was certain his state of arousal was obvious, having moved far past mild interest, his blood now a pounding drum of desire.

“Very well.”

“I can’t have photos, or evidence, or any of that shit in the house with Mischa. I just…”

“Of course not,” Hannibal interrupted, his eyes narrowed as he gave in to the urge to touch once more, cupping the side of Will’s face. “I would shield her away from all the horrors of the world throughout her life, were it within my power.”

Will smiled softly. “It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it?” Hannibal nodded by way of response. “Right, so, none of that in the house, and that goes for Jack, too. I don’t want him in our home.”

“I shall make that clear to him.”

Hannibal brushed his thumb over the curve of Will’s cheek, and felt the hand on his thigh twitch momentarily, before Will’s fingers tightened their hold on him rather pleasantly. His expression was almost downcast when he continued, though, and his eyes lowered once again.

“I’m probably not going to want to hear about the cases you’re working on for a while.”

Will took a deep breath, and Hannibal had to fight the urge to stroke the swell of his lower lip, to push his thumb into Will’s mouth. In an attempt to err on the side of caution, he settled his hand upon Will’s shoulder instead, ignored the impulse to curl his fingers around the nape of Will’s neck, to pull him closer still.

“I don’t want you to hide from me, though,” Will said, looking up once more. “If it’s… I don’t need to know the specifics of a case to be able to listen, if it troubles you, or… pleases you. I can’t hide from that side of you anymore.”

Hannibal disliked this particular stipulation. It wasn’t that he doubted Will’s intentions, it was simply self preservation. The idea of coming home from a day of work and discussing how delightful he found the heady perfume of blood to be seemed laughable at best, and yet some part of him wished to test the boundaries of this new relationship unfolding between them. It was easy to imagine the great satisfaction that could come of sharing without fear of rebuke.

“It shall be difficult for me,” Hannibal admitted, some of his desire ebbing as he imagined the multitude of ways in which Will could react to certain confessions. “Perhaps it will be more difficult for you than you suspect.”

Will laughed softly, although there was an edge to it. “Probably,” he admitted, but his eyes seemed to shine with affection, and determination. “I still need to hear it, though.”

“If it pleases you.”

“One more condition,” Will announced, trying for lighthearted and falling rather short of the mark. “Be careful, Hannibal.”

Will made no mention of Tobias Budge, or Samuel Anderson, said nothing of the potential for harm that came part and parcel with delving into the world of serial killers. There was so very much to be careful about, from his own predilections to the attention they were certain to draw once Hannibal’s full time involvement with the F.B.I. became known by the likes of Freddie Lounds. He simply reiterated, “Please, be careful,” as he removed his hand from Hannibal’s thigh in order to cup his cheek instead.

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed, “of course.”

Will’s hand was warm against his face, painfully familiar, and Hannibal began to find himself almost growing giddy with hope. Will’s eyes kept darting down to Hannibal’s mouth, and he parted his lips slightly in anticipation, unwilling to close the gap between them, needing Will to be the one who took action.

Just as Will’s mouth opened, as if to ask permission, just as he tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, and began to lean a bit closer, the sound of Mischa crying cut through the moment like a well sharpened blade, the sudden noise from the baby monitor causing Will to bolt back almost comically as he scrambled to keep from dumping his glasses onto the floor.

Hannibal’s irritation at the interruption melted away as he and Will both rose to tend to Mischa, Will shuffling in embarrassment as they almost ran into each other.

“I can go,” Hannibal offered, even as Will said the same.

Will gave a little laugh as he shoved his glasses back onto his face, eyes still darting to stare at Hannibal’s mouth. “How about we both go?” he finally suggested, making a sweeping gesture towards the staircase. “After you.”

As they liberated Mischa from the crib, and took turns rocking her in their arms, Hannibal couldn’t help but notice how much closer Will seemed to stand, how he found little opportunities to make physical contact, and more than ever was convinced Will had had every intention of kissing him, before they were interrupted.

Hannibal smiled softly to himself, even as he wondered how he was meant to endure sharing the bed with Will that evening without his resolve cracking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that the 12th was the one year anniversary of _Morphology_! Wow wow wow, how time flies! It's been so amazing having gotten to fangirl squee with you all in the comments, and on tumblr, etc. You've made the last year spectacular with your lovely feedback, and unending support of this madness. Thanks to all of you!
> 
> Um, also, Will? Please just climb onto Hannibal's lap, okay? You're going to feel so much better about life if you let yourself be ravaged. I promise! Hannibal will even let you adopt more dogs at this point, he's so hard up for you, seriously.


	14. Boundaries

Mischa was sleeping once more, but Will was hesitant to leave the side of her crib. Watching her sleep had become something of a balm to his jangled nerves, a way for him to let the rest of the world slip away, his focus narrowing down until all that remained was the rise and fall of her chest. It was all the more enjoyable for the fact that Hannibal was standing beside him, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed.

The room was dim, lit only by Mischa’s night light, a sort of soft, golden illumination, which combined with the clean baby smell permeating the room left Will’s posture loose, and fluid, his thoughts strangely optimistic.

“Is it wrong that I’m already worried about her future boyfriends?”

Beside him, Hannibal huffed with surprised laughter, clearly not having expected this question. “Or future girlfriends, for that matter,” he added, his voice soft so as not to disturb Mischa.

“Huh. We could be so lucky.”

“Matters of the heart are tricky regardless of gender,” Hannibal reminded him. “Perhaps we ought to begin perfecting our ‘shovel talk’ well in advance.”

Despite himself, Will burst out laughing, having to cover his mouth with his hands, and when that did little to stifle the noise, he gave into the impulse that had been haunting him all evening, and reached out for Hannibal. The doctor only tensed for a moment as Will pressed his face against Hannibal’s shoulder to help smother the noise as his body shook with laughter.

Will knew it shouldn’t be quite _that_ funny, all things considered, but it was as if his body could no longer hold onto the tension he’d been bottling up all evening, needed a safe way of releasing it. Besides, Hannibal smelled amazing, and felt even better; warm, and solid, and placing a hesitant hand at the small of Will’s back. Will pressed himself closer, one hand curled around Hannibal’s biceps, the other on his hip, and just laughed some more.

After a moment, he was able to get control of himself, and pulled back just a bit, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes. “Shovel talk indeed. I’m pretty sure between the two of us we can scare the everloving shit out of anyone trying to get into Mischa’s pants.”

The shadows were doing some amazing things with Hannibal’s features, with the curve of his smile, and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “I have faith in our abilities,” he said, still watching Mischa, and Will couldn’t help himself, he had to kiss him.

It was chaste at first, little more than a brush of lips, Hannibal’s eyes wide with surprise, his hand twitching against the small of Will’s back. Chaste as it was, Will couldn’t help but moan, because it had been _so long_.

“Hannibal,” and he had meant for it to be a question, a request for permission to continue, but it sounded far more like begging to Will’s ears.

At the sound of Will’s voice, Hannibal actually _shuddered_ , his eyes searching Will’s face, and all Will could do was lick his lips, and nod, and watch as Hannibal closed the distance between them once more, and kissed him in return. It was far less chaste, but much more reverent, the soft brush of lips against his, and then it was Will’s turn to tremble.

“Hannibal,” he said again, squirming in Hannibal’s embrace until he could get his hands free in order to slide them into Hannibal’s hair, pull him closer, and moan against his mouth. This act spurred Hannibal into motion, and Will gasped at the first hot slide of Hannibal’s tongue against his own, surged forward to crush their mouths together, desperate and impatient.

“Will,” Hannibal whispered, pulling back slightly to worry at Will’s upper lip, capture it between his own lips, and it was such a familiar gesture that Will found himself wanting to laugh again. “Perhaps…”

“God, Hannibal, _your mouth_ ,” Will interrupted, nuzzling the mouth in question, tugging on Hannibal’s lower lip with his teeth. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Will’s confession seemed to derail Hannibal, caused his eyes to widen, and then his tongue was back, hot, insistent, and Will met him head on, capturing it with his teeth, and sucking on it. Hannibal’s hands moved, one fisting the fabric of Will’s shirt between his shoulder blades, while the other slid lower to cup his ass, and Will was far beyond his ability to keep quiet at this point, groaning loud enough to cause Mischa to stir.

They stopped mid-kiss, each turning to stare down at Mischa, breathing heavy and loud in the room, but after another soft noise she settled back into sleep. Will couldn’t keep the crazy smile off of his face, and he turned back to Hannibal, had to assume he was wearing an equally sheepish expression as the one he found on Hannibal’s face.

“Maybe we should relocate,” Will suggested, eyes darting between Hannibal’s eyes and his mouth, suddenly not entirely sure of himself. He wasn’t interested in stopping anytime soon, but he also wasn’t positive it was a good idea to just jump right back into the thick of things.

As if reading his thoughts, Hannibal placed a gentle kiss against Will’s mouth, and stroked the side of his face. “It might be for the best to take things a bit slower than the first time around.”

“We never did get to enjoy the whole homage to the horny teenager together, last time,” Will whispered, smiling. “Although it’s a little harder to go home and jerk off after a makeout session when you share a bed with the person you’re fantasizing about.”

Hannibal made a soft, hungry noise at this, and Will shifted against him, allowing Hannibal to feel how hard he was, needing to feel the matching stiffness in Hannibal’s own pants.

“We’re quite clever, you and I,” Hannibal murmured, grabbing Will’s ass with both hands in order to grind them together. It made Will see spots, and it felt like his heart had pumped every last bit of blood into his cock. “Between the two of us, I am certain we’ll find a solution.”

Will kissed him again, hungrily, losing his mind a little at the familiar, missed feeling of Hannibal’s mouth against his own, of the rasp of his end of the day stubble, and the sheer, solid strength of the body he was rubbing against.

With great effort, he pried himself free of Hannibal’s embrace, not missing the look of loss, and concern that flitted across the man’s face at the move, but this expression was fleeting; Will took him by the hand and pulled him towards the door. Hannibal followed, only too happy to be led to their bedroom.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Will had Hannibal pushed up against it, nuzzling his neck and kissing all along his jawline. Obviously intending to one-up him, Hannibal pushed off of the door, and just lifted Will off of the ground. In an attempt to gain purchase, Will wrapped his legs around Hannibal’s waist, which had clearly been the goal all along, and then found himself pressed against the cool wood of the door, Hannibal kissing up into his mouth from this new angle.

“Definitely feeling like a horny teenager,” Will gasped, rolling his hips in order to grind his cock against Hannibal. The large hands cupping his ass squeezed, and Hannibal thrust against him in return. He pulled out of the kiss in order to suck wetly at the spot just below Will’s ear, making him shudder and groan again, fingers tightening in Hannibal’s hair.

“Shall we set up some boundaries?”

“Before or after you make me come in my pants?”

Hannibal made a sort of desperate, hungry noise at this, and Will had to kiss him again before ultimately pulling away, his mouth brushing softly against Hannibal’s temple as he tried to catch his breath, and gather his thoughts.

“Before, I think,” Hannibal finally answered, speaking the words against Will’s neck. 

He shifted, each of them hissing with pleasure as their cocks, separated only by several layers of thin cloth, brushed against each other again. Hannibal made it clear he intended for Will to stand once more, so with reluctance, Will did so, until he found himself using the door to remain upright, his cock pounding distractingly in his pants, while Hannibal took several steps back.

The doctor was in no better shape, his mouth pink, and swollen, the front of his pants tented, as he ran a hand over his face, then his hair, a feeble attempt to regain his composure. There was a livid mark just visible beneath Hannibal’s collar, where Will had sucked perhaps a bit too enthusiastically; the sight of it made him lick his lips, and he pressed his palms flat against the wood of the door in order to keep from reaching out, pulling that warm, hard body back against his own.

“Right. Boundaries,” Will gasped, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Maybe… just hands for now, for a little while.”

As hard as he was, as amazing as it had been to kiss Hannibal again, Will wasn’t foolish enough to think it would be all smooth sailing. Kissing was one thing, watching parts of himself disappear into Hannibal’s mouth was another, and at that thought he had to open his eyes, remind himself of who he was with. It was almost a relief to find Hannibal looking so undone, so at his mercy in the moment, all that dangerous strength contained, and waiting to do Will’s bidding.

Will swallowed, thought to himself as he had done on countless occasions, “Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper.” While the expected flutter of panic presented itself, it was far less than he’d anticipated; he wasn’t sure if this was good or bad.

He’d always considered himself to have good morals, to be beyond this sort of corruption, or compromise, but at the same time it was becoming increasingly easy to make excuses for Hannibal, for himself. Try as he might, he couldn’t find another example of such a prolific killer choosing to abandon it all, without having been asked, all for the chance at a different life.

It didn’t change anything, really, and he tried to remind himself of that—even if he never killed again, Hannibal had a body count associated with him that Will was still scared to examine. There were the copycat killings, the grotesque parade of Ripper victims, but Hannibal had more or less made it clear to Will that he’d been at this far longer than the F.B.I.’s first documented Ripper case. He’d been young when he started, and had never stopped, never taken a break, content to switch up his _modus operandi_ or allow others to take credit for his lesser works if need be.

Hannibal breathed heavily, his body moving little despite this, and Will thought of all the times he’d compared Hannibal to a large, predatory animal, had somehow taken comfort in that comparison, not understanding how very close to the truth he was.

And that was the flimsiest excuse of them all, but one Will couldn’t shake, which was that the rules, the morals that applied to other men didn’t apply when Hannibal was the man in question, because despite knowing better, since assuming his point of view, Will was unable to think of Hannibal as _just_ a man. He was something other, something above, or between, or perhaps even below, but entirely alien, and therefore exempt.

If anything, this understanding should have made things harder—if Hannibal was truly so unlike all other men, then he should be separate from _all_ basic, human emotions. And in a way, he was. The love Will had felt for himself when in the mindset of Hannibal had been astounding, all consuming, and humbling.

Hannibal’s pupils were blown, his eyes hooded as he stared at Will. He hadn’t answered, had been standing there, watching, and Will suspected Hannibal had an idea of where Will’s thoughts had taken him. Meeting his eyes once again, Will pulled one of his palms away from the door, and used it to stroke himself through his pants. Hannibal’s mouth fell open, and he took a single, halting step forward.

“So, hands to start?” Will asked, letting Hannibal see whatever he wished when looking into his eyes. Let him see that Will wasn’t hiding from the truth in the moment, was folding it into this strange new relationship they were building with each other.

“Anything you wish,” Hannibal answered, and he meant it, Will could see how much he meant it, and felt that strange thrill rush through him again.

Will was certain his expression was far more serious than it should have been when he stepped away from the door, and took one of Hannibal’s hands in order to drag him over to their bed. They fell onto it together, kicking off their shoes in the process and shifting around until Hannibal was sprawled atop him, their legs tangled together and their mouths meeting again.

Having Hannibal’s weight on him, the warmth of his body seemingly everywhere, caused Will to moan again, and arch up into the contact. As they kissed, he began tugging roughly at the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt in order to pull it open, needing to touch him. There was a flurry of movement as Hannibal tugged Will’s t-shirt up and out of the way, the fabric bunching in his armpits, but then their bare chests and stomachs were touching, and it was _perfect_.

Will couldn’t stop touching him, running his hands over Hannibal’s chest, up under the back of his shirt to feel the muscles of his back, and his shoulders, sliding down to grab Hannibal’s ass and pull him closer.

“I’ve missed the taste of your skin,” Hannibal murmured, sucking one of Will’s nipples before licking his way up to Will’s neck, up under his jaw, and then sliding his tongue back into Will’s mouth.

“Fuck, _Hannibal_ ,” Will gasped, rocking up against him, tugging roughly on Hannibal’s hair. “I wasn’t kidding, I’m going to come in my pants if we keep this up.”

The noise Hannibal made in response to this caused Will’s cock to throb almost painfully, but then he was distracted by the flurry of movement as Hannibal began unfastening his pants, then he was rushing to do the same for Hannibal. Clothing was shoved, and tugged roughly out of the way, each of them still mostly dressed and tangled up in the fabric, but it was enough, it was more than enough, it was incredibly, indescribably hot to look down and see Hannibal’s cock jutting out of his boxers, to see his own doing the same.

Licking his lips, and propping himself up on an elbow, Will wrapped his hand around Hannibal, his own cock bobbing in appreciation as Hannibal shuddered, his head dropping to Will’s shoulder for a moment.

“If you don’t touch me,” Will began, but he never had the opportunity to finish, because one of Hannibal’s beautiful, long fingered, elegant hands wrapped around him. “Oh thank fuck,” he groaned falling back against the bed, his arm going out from under him.

Hannibal repositioned himself so he was braced above Will, kissing him again, hot, and filthy as he worked the head of Will’s cock, his tongue thrusting into Will’s mouth in time with the pumping of his fist. Will rocked his hips, thrusting into the tight grip of Hannibal’s hand, even as he mirrored the gesture, his own hand stroking and squeezing Hannibal.

“Lube,” Will gasped, “would make this even better.”

He laughed at the way Hannibal scrambled for the nightstand, couldn’t recall having seen him so eager before, but then all of it was washed away, because there Hannibal was, straddling him, his cock jutting out in front of him, and Will had to struggle not to throw aside the boundaries they’d only just established; he wanted Hannibal in his mouth.

Hannibal squirted a bit of the lube into his hand, then draped himself over Will once again, working it over both of their cocks at the same time, causing Will to buck and thrust up into the sensation of Hannibal’s hardness sliding wetly against his own.

Will reached down, needing to touch again, groaning loudly as he and Hannibal found a rhythm together, kissing sloppily as they each thrust into their combined grip, hot and hard against each other. Will kept one hand fisted in Hannibal’s hair, so he could periodically pull their mouths apart in order to look down at them, at the way he and Hannibal were already leaking, at his own hand smoothing the precome down over the heads of their cocks.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” Will gasped, feeling his balls tighten with his impending orgasm.

“Which means we can do it again,” Hannibal answered, breath hot against Will’s face.

It was the thought of _again_ that did it for Will, of all the possible ‘agains _’_ they had to look forward to; sliding his mouth over Hannibal’s cock again, Hannibal doing the same in return, Hannibal’s tongue in his ass, followed by his fingers, then his cock, and then Will was coming, hard enough to see spots, and watching himself coat the both of them in the process. He shuddered, and jerked, and his hand stuttered in its rhythm as he shook through his orgasm, but only for a moment, then he was fisting Hannibal’s cock again, surprised to hear himself panting, “do it, Hannibal, I want to see you come all over me.”

And so Hannibal did, hot, and thick, all over Will’s stomach, and his chest, both of their hands, and between the two of them they were an awful, awful mess of semen and sweat, sticking together and laughing together like they’d just discovered the best game ever.

Hannibal nuzzled Will’s neck, teeth biting down lightly at Will’s pulse point. “May I?” he asked softly, brushing his lips against Will’s ear. Will could only nod, tried and failed to keep himself propped up enough to properly watch as Hannibal began licking his stomach and chest clean. He shook against the bed, his entire body tingling with pleasure, smiling stupidly up at their ceiling.

“Come here,” he demanded, and Hannibal did, whimpering softly as Will kissed him, sucked greedily on his tongue. “You taste like us,” Will whispered, surprised at the open, awed look in Hannibal’s eyes.

“ _Us_ is all I’ve ever wanted,” Hannibal confessed, “ever since the first time we conversed.”

“I know,” Will answered, smoothing Hannibal’s hair back from his face, stroking his cheek. “Hannibal, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHH~!! Kissing! Touching! Orgasms! Oh my~! FINALLY. Thank you for your patience, hopefully this bit of nookie was worth the wait. More "agains" await the boys.


	15. Temptation

Hannibal’s eyes closed in reverence, his nostrils flaring as he breathed deeply, and allowed himself a moment of indulgence. Behind the veil of his eyelids, images vibrant and visceral paraded, his heart swelling with a sudden desire for composition; he could almost feel the keys of the harpsichord beneath his fingertips. Ink, paper, and time would be required, would likely comprise the better part of his afternoon, once his work was finished. And in the evening, after Mischa had gone to sleep, he could play the piece for Will, and then perhaps apply his fingertips to tracing the contours of Will’s body, until he trembled and quaked.

For now though, there was work to be done, and so Hannibal opened his eyes once more, and allowed no outward sign of his pleasure to make itself known to those around him. There wasn’t anything in particular to be delighted by, after all, aside from the fact that he was returned to his element.

The gloves he wore squeaked softly as he extended a finger, tracing the intricate knotwork around the victim’s wrists. In general, the scene was wholly unspectacular, and part of him wondered at the F.B.I.’s involvement. To Hannibal, the scene had the markings of a first outing, but in some ways it was almost difficult to concentrate around his own bubbling mirth.

“Beverly,” he called out softly as she approached him, “have there been others like this?”

“Nope.” She raised her eyebrows at him, grinning when he arched one back in her direction. “You’re a sharp one. No wonder Will likes you.”

To his surprise, Hannibal smiled at this, although he’d had no intention to. As of late, any thoughts of Will brought with it a strange, delicate sense of joy over their reconnection.

“Might I assume this means someone called in a favor?”

Beverly waggled a finger at him. “You win the prize. Someone pulled some strings pretty quickly when this came through, and the next thing you know we’re pissing off the locals by swooping in and taking over.”

Hannibal nodded his understanding, eyes lingering on the corpse before him. He had hoped for blood, but what little was to be found presented itself in the form of petechial hemorrhages, pretty, but lacking the heady perfume he longed for.

“One would expect a sexual element to be present, in these circumstances,” Hannibal remarked, head tilted to the side as he gazed into the waxy eyes of their victim.

“Jack thought the same thing, but we haven’t been able to find any traces of seminal fluids. Of course, we’re assuming by the size of the bruises that it was a man, but maybe it was a lady with really big hands.”

“You sound almost hopeful, Agent Katz.”

“Oh, you know me,” Beverly’s voice was a teasing lilt, “I just like to see women equally represented.”

“I fear disappointment awaits you. This is almost certainly the work of a man. How long did he stay, I wonder, choking our victim, bringing him to the brink, only to back off, wait, and do so again.”

“Sounds like a party,” and this time the sarcasm was thick. “Speaking of which, Alana has a birthday coming up. She’s a spoilsport and doesn’t want to make a big deal of it, but I’m betting she’d let us have a dinner in her honor.”

“Will and I would be happy to host, if that’s the case,” Hannibal offered, words punctuated by the loud snap of his gloves being removed. “It would provide me with an excuse to prepare more elaborate fair than the various purees Mischa is so fond of.”

“I was hoping you’d say that! Alana is dying to see Mischa again, but felt sort of guilty for just dropping in on you and Will the last time she was over.”

“Nonsense. You’re always welcome.”

It might not have been the truth, exactly, but it was close enough. There was nothing of interest for him to hide anymore, and the more company Will had, the better. Aside from his therapy sessions, he’d spent little time outside of the home, and even less time away from Mischa.

“With my return to work, I fear Will might soon find himself lacking in adult companionship.”

“I’d say he was overdosing on _Dora the Explorer_ , but then you guys don’t have a television.”

“Abigail had one,” Hannibal answered, enjoying the way sadness settled over Beverly’s features. “Although, I don’t believe Will has availed himself of it.”

“Is her room still…” Beverly trailed off, but her question was clear.

“For now, yes. Will isn’t quite ready to tackle that particular project.”

Beverly looked down at the corpse in front of them, her mouth a tight line. “Well, when you do, Alana and I would be happy to help. It’d be nice to have a little something to remember her by, too.”

“It might be helpful for Alana, as well,” Hannibal pointed out. “Sorrow has weighed heavily upon her, since Abigail’s murder.”

“Tell me about it. Survivor’s guilt is a bitch.”

“There was nothing she could have done, no way she could have known. For my part, I am only thankful that we did not lose two remarkable women to Jacob Anderson.”

The remark had the desired impact, and Hannibal allowed himself to bask in the strong emotions rolling across Beverly’s features. Despite the lack of blood, of a truly worthy first offering for his talents, he found himself in the best of moods. After all, there was something harmonious in being presented with a killer’s first victim while also experiencing his own first in his new role liaising with the F.B.I.

A composition was certainly in order, something playful. Hands behind his back, his fingers tapped out a cheery rhythm against his palms, as he and Beverly went to report their findings to Jack.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will had, understandably, expected some panic, some strange wash of misgivings to present itself in the aftermath of his union with Hannibal. That these feelings never manifested themselves was almost disappointing; he’d worked himself up for nothing, apparently.

It had been almost _too_ easy, slipping back into a more intimate relationship with Hannibal, and when he wasn’t enjoying it, he was waiting for some sudden influx of negativity. Still, nothing presented itself, and so the days continued.

If anything, it had only whetted Will’s appetite. His mornings felt incomplete if he did not wake to the feeling of Hannibal’s body curled against his own, to the press of lips against the nape of his neck, and fingers curled possessively around his hip.

It was like being a teenager again, he was all eager hardness, impatience, and fantasies. He loathed the mornings when the urge to urinate won out against a need to have Hannibal’s hands on him. It had become an almost regular occurrence for them to wake earlier than need be, avail themselves of a hasty brushing of teeth, and emptying of bladders before rushing back to the bedroom.

Some days they didn’t even make it that far, falling upon each other as soon as the last bit of toothpaste was rinsed away, and those mornings made Will feel incredibly alive. He knew Hannibal enjoyed taking his time, drawing out sensations until Will begged for release, and so there was something very pleasing to the ego about him letting that need for controlled pleasure fall by the wayside.

Hands had been working out remarkably well between them, but Will found himself longing for more, for the heavy weight of Hannibal’s cock in his mouth, or in his ass. Just that morning, he had almost begged for that very thing, three of Hannibal’s long fingers inside of him, the other wrapped around his cock, and just thinking of it had his blood pumping faster.

The more time they spent touching, stroking, tangled up in the sheets, kissing as if their lives depended upon it, the more Will seemed to want. He caught himself clock watching with increasing frequency, anxious for the sound of Hannibal’s car in the drive. On more than one occasion, he had all but pounced on the doctor as soon as he walked into their home, shoving him back against the door in order to lick his way into Hannibal’s mouth.

He might have been overwhelmed by it all, but Hannibal seemed to be experiencing the same strange urgency, and so Will had decided to enjoy it while it lasted. There were still days and nights where Mischa commanded all of their attention, leaving them falling asleep before anything of interest could happen, but more often than not, Will could count upon finding his release with Hannibal at some point in the day. Oddly, it was as if he was having more regular sex than ever, whilst simultaneously feeling increasingly sexually frustrated.

And so it was one of those days where time seemed intent upon torturing him, dragging on and on, so that a hundred days passed before Hannibal returned home, apparently in good spirits. Will had been in the process of changing Mischa’s diaper, and missed the opportunity to pounce upon Hannibal as soon as he entered, but before too long he found himself being kissed hello, Hannibal’s fingers buried in his hair in order to still Will’s eagerness.

“Beverly sends her greetings,” Hannibal said eventually, Will only prevented from continuing the kiss by the hold on his hair.

“Was that kiss from her, then?” he teased. “Because I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

Hannibal only smirked at the joke, releasing Will in order to scoop Mischa up into his arms. Will followed as they headed downstairs and into the kitchen, unable to keep his eyes off of the curve of Hannibal’s ass, and the narrowness of his hips.

“Alana and Beverly will be coming for dinner next week,” Hannibal announced, actually looking a bit sheepish. “If you’re not ready for the company…”

Will waved away the offer to rescind the invitation. “No, that’s fine. It’ll be nice, actually, now that I think about it. I haven’t seen Alana since her surprise inspection. Just promise me whatever feast you make isn’t macabre. As improved as I am, I don’t think I’m quite ready for bone and animal skull centerpieces.”

“I will be making something of Alana’s choosing,” Hannibal answered, his mouth curled in a smile. “It is her birthday.”

“Ah. There’ll be cake, then,” Will said with a smile of his own. “I’m okay with cake.”

They spent some time in comfortable silence, Will watching as Hannibal chopped vegetables, and prepared chicken to be roasted. Eventually, though, his curiosity won out.

“So. Your first day working with the F.B.I.”

Hannibal glanced up, his eyes sparkling, and Will knew a great deal of his lover’s mirth this evening was as a result of the very thing he’d just brought up. It should have come with a wave of disgust, of thinking Hannibal the worst sort of monster, but this reaction was muted, the ghost of a reflexive disgust, not actually touching his heart.

Perhaps sensing there was no judgement, no landmines to navigate, Hannibal said, “Rather mundane, actually. Our victim has friends in high places, otherwise it would have been a matter for the police.”

“Still,” Will proceeded cautiously, “I’m sure it was… uh, nice?”

Hannibal eyed him intensely, his gaze flickering momentarily to Mischa, before returning to Will. “Comforting, might be a better word.”

Will was half tempted to say to Mischa, “Did you hear that? Your father is comforted by corpses,” because suddenly the whole thing just felt absurd. How in the world had he found himself in a place where a statement like the one Hannibal had made didn’t have him reaching for a gun?

“Not too… tempting?”

“Far too pedestrian for such a reaction,” Hannibal answered easily, meaning both the killer and victim were, by his high standards, boring.

That was equally ridiculous, to be standing in their kitchen, holding their daughter, and almost feeling bad for Hannibal that the murder he was helping solve wasn’t actually worthy of his interest. That a part of him recognized the artistic talent, and mastery that Hannibal’s crimes had involved, deplorable as they were. None of it made sense, and so he just left it alone, something that had becoming increasingly easy to do.

Will settled Mischa into her chair, then rejoined Hannibal, insinuating himself into the prep process for dinner, although his contributions mostly consisted of stealing bits of vegetable, and finding excuses to touch Hannibal. It took a great deal of restraint, but he managed to wait until the food was in the oven, and Hannibal was scrubbing his hands clean before wrapping himself around the doctor, mouth pressed close to his ear.

“I was thinking we should adjust our boundaries,” Will whispered hotly, pleased by the way Hannibal’s body twitched in response. He tugged on Hannibal’s ear with his teeth, and added, “I’ve spent the better part of the day thinking about sucking you off.”

That earned him a soft noise of pleasure, and, already half hard, Will rubbed himself against the curve of Hannibal’s ass, sliding a hand over the front of Hannibal’s pants, not surprised to find an answering hardness waiting for him. Will stroked him through his pants for a moment, then stepped away, before things progressed too far.

“I feel as if this evening is going to drag on painfully slow as a result of your confession,” Hannibal finally remarked, and Will smiled broadly in response.

“I promise to make it worth the wait,” he answered with a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will better follow through on that promise, s'all I'm saying. Cue the evil laughter.
> 
> Thanks for all the overwhelming, excited feedback over the last chapter! FINALLY! All signs point to pants off in the next chapter, as well. I've (not at all, but kind of sort of) created a monster, and his name is Will "gimme that Hannibal dick" Graham.


	16. Distractions of the Flesh

As he waited, Hannibal’s mind drifted, returning again and again, despite his attempts to reign in his thoughts, to the direction life had taken as of late.

Before his confession, back before Will was injured, or distracted by the Puppet Master case, Hannibal would have been comfortable in stating they had an excellent sex life. It wasn’t as if he had a long list of previous partners upon which to base this conviction, but he did have as evidence his own sensations, the vocal nature of Will’s pleasure, and the knowledge that Will was the first to ever kindle such a passion inside of him, to leave him thinking of altogether _different_ distractions of the flesh than the sort he was used to.

There had been many moments during their time together when Hannibal had loosened his control, allowed Will to see something of his true nature in his eyes, and this had always been met with an increase in urgency from Will, as if he was both scared and propelled by what he saw lurking there. It had been the closest Hannibal had dared hope to ever being accepted.

When Will had retreated, it had left Hannibal aching in more than one way. Emotionally, it was devastating, but he had never suspected it would be otherwise. The surprise to him was the extent to which his body ached for Will, conditioned as it was to press into and fill all his empty spaces, to taste, and explore, and possess. 

Having spent the better portion of his life celibate, it had been rather upsetting to find himself unable to simply and comfortably revert back into that role. Perhaps if they had been separated in the truer sense, this might have been the case, but Will was still there, still close at hand, and more beautiful to Hannibal than ever.

It was torture to look, but not touch, not taste, a pain felt doubly due to the emotional withdrawal, the rejection, the _absence_ of one person his heart, mind, and body had come to consensus on being the missing piece of himself. Equally galling was how very déclassé the entire notion of a ‘missing piece’ of himself was to begin with. The very idea of it was offensive, but inescapable; he walked around, a paltry imitation of himself, feeling as if hollowed with a blunt instrument of some kind.

In ways it had been easier when Will had shunned him entirely, made the fact that he was unwanted quite painfully clear. As this shifted into uneasy acceptance, as his hope grew, so too did his physical longing, until he worried for his own ability to maintain self control, a state quite unfamiliar to him. Say what you will about his homicidal nature, impulsiveness had never been a factor.

Hannibal had been quite certain he alone was experiencing this phenomenon, but now knew better. Clearly, for some time, Will’s own desires had been awakened, his body crying out for what they had lost, longing rising to dangerous levels until finally the dam broke, and the flood of _want_ won out against any lingering disgust Will might have been harboring.

The first brush of Will’s lips against his own had been his undoing. During that pivotal moment, when Will reached for him once again, Hannibal experienced the most beautiful pairing of trepidation and joy, that music swelled within his mind, much as his body sang with pleasure, until all that was left was the knowledge that he had, somehow, against all reason, been _accepted_.

Once upon a time, Hannibal had hoped for such a thing, a great many hours of contemplation unfolding imaginings of Will joining him in the kill, of the thought of his calloused hand wrapped unshakingly around the handle of a scalpel, tip held poised and ready above trembling flesh. In many of these fantasies, he stood behind Will, guiding him through the first piercing of skin, one hand splayed across Will’s chest in order to feel the steady, unwavering beating of his heart.

It could have been a beautiful life—some small part of Hannibal still believed this to be true—but it would also have changed the very nature of the object of his affection, his obsession. Even in his imagination, there came a day when Will exceeded him, where he found himself ended by the exquisite monster he had created. It seemed fitting, in ways much in life had not, but was not a happy ending by any definition.

Strange, to find himself changed by the very person he sought to reshape, and perhaps even the better for it. The trust that had grown between them was satisfying to an astounding degree. To be in a position where Will posited a need for contingency plans to be in place, if ever the discovery of his true nature transpired, to know that Will would want such a thing… For them to escape together… It made his heart race in ways killing and consuming never had.

For Hannibal, it was as if every day began with him handing Will a sharpened axe, placing his head on the chopping block, only to find himself reprieved over, and over again, the killing blow never coming. To find, instead, a life entirely unlike anything he would ever have imagined wanting presented to him for the taking, and he took, and took, and it grew easier with every day that passed.

Family was a word with meaning again, and it was as troubling as it was uplifting. It left him vulnerable in ways he never need have concerned himself with before, and yet, despite all the ways in which it felt almost unnatural, or uncomfortable, there was the balance of beauty, and joy. Especially now.

Which was why his mind could not focus, could not keep itself in the moment, and instead drifted, wanting and needing to revisit the strange new world of pleasure he and Will were building for themselves.

An excruciatingly long dinner, comprised of stilted small talk, Will’s eyes making it clear where his mind was focused, what he wished to be doing instead of eating, or being responsible and waiting until it was Mischa’s customary time for sleep before falling upon Hannibal like some wild, starved creature.

Will on his lap, writhing in the most lovely, distracting fashion, until Hannibal all but tore his clothing aside, needing to taste, and touch with more freedom. To hold Will tightly enough to bruise him, only to find him groaning and grinding in response, Hannibal’s tongue tracing reverently over each of Will’s nipples in return. Worrying them with his teeth, feeling the heat of Will’s body, smelling the heady odor of his desire, as Hannibal explored, and marked his way, leaving wet trails across Will’s chest, his neck, and jaw, and everywhere else within reach.

To have the luxury of having his breath stolen, Will holding him almost too tightly by the neck as he kissed Hannibal again, and again, until he was dizzy from it all, and could only hold on, encourage Will with soft noises of pleasure.

There was something quite perfect about the way Will slid to his knees, tugging roughly at Hannibal’s pants in order to get bothersome fabric out of the way. To be seated on the couch, Will before him, flushed in the face, his mouth slack with pleasure, and his eyes wild as he took hold of Hannibal, and slowly, ever so painfully slowly, licked his way around the head of his cock.

Hannibal had held his breath for a period of time, mesmerized by the pleasure he saw on Will’s face, by the undone look when Will met his eyes and slid his lips wetly over Hannibal, eyelids fluttering and cheeks hollowing. Then he was altogether lost to pleasure, both of the flesh and the heart, for it felt as if there was nothing between them any longer. He had walked through fire for Will, and somehow come out the other side unburned.

Will’s mouth was a furnace, the soft, wet, hungry noises he made leaving Hannibal’s own mouth feeling empty. He rolled his tongue through his mouth, sucked his own lower lip between his teeth in an attempt to distract himself. He would not push, content to allow Will to dictate the pace at which their newfound intimacy unfolded, despite the overwhelming desire to feel Will in his mouth once more.

So he allowed himself to be lost in the moment, tracing the contours of Will’s face with his fingertips, curling around the curve of his jaw in order to feel the working of the muscle there, and Will seemed spurred on by the caress. He let Hannibal’s cock slip from his mouth with a loud, wet noise, stroking him instead as he sucked Hannibal’s fingers into his mouth.

Heat, and blood, and desire swelled, and Hannibal all but growled, rubbing his thumb over Will’s swollen lower lip, then pulling his mouth open, curling his fingers against Will’s tongue as he slid them into his mouth. Will’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then pulled away, shifting his attention back to Hannibal’s cock.

His eyes hooded, and dark with lust, Will began sucking with purpose, a beautifully punishing rhythm between his hands and mouth, tongue swirling and rolling against Hannibal, until he began focusing mercilessly on the head of his cock, both hands stroking Hannibal as he licked again, and again, a sticky trail of precome visible between his mouth and Hannibal’s cock.

“I’ve missed this,” Will said softly, shifting a bit between Hannibal’s knees, and then he took Hannibal in his mouth again, deeper than before, until he felt Will swallowing around the head of his cock.

Hannibal was certain there would be bruises on his wrists in the morning, as Will held them tightly against the couch, working himself up and down, a hypnotizing bobbing that left Hannibal panting softly in pleasure, his hips demanding to thrust upward to meet the wet heat of Will’s mouth, to bury himself in his throat, and come.

Will must have sensed him nearing release, for he backed off long enough to put his hands back to work, and then there was simply no hope whatsoever, Hannibal crying out softly as Will finally dragged him over the edge, jerking Hannibal just the right side of roughly, pulling back enough that Hannibal would be able to see himself come. He was shuddering by the time Will finished, breathing heavily and watching as Will carefully licked him clean.

Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, but was distracted by Will standing, hastily working his pants down over his hips. He wasn’t wearing any underwear, which left Hannibal smiling with surprise, before he was distracted yet again, watching hungrily as Will began to touch himself.

“Hannibal,” and his voice was raw, husky, his mouth almost bruised looking. 

Hannibal met his eyes, watched with growing interest as Will stepped closer, and reached out to curl a hand around the back of Hannibal’s neck. He looked up in order to meet Will’s eyes, which were filled with lust, fondness, and an odd undercurrent of power. 

“You may lick.”

A huff of surprise pushed passed Hannibal’s lips as he sat up, shifted closer, staring up the lean expanse of Will in order to watch his face as slowly, purposefully, he licked his way from the base of Will’s cock, up over the head, swirling his tongue to catch the wetness there.

How strange, to have such a simple thing leave him completely undone, but it did, in ways he could not understand, as he struggled to find a normal rhythm to his breathing, ran his hands over the curve of Will’s ass, the backs of this thighs, again and again. Listening for Will’s matched heavy breathing, feeling him tremble, as he licked, and licked, and _licked_ , cataloging the taste, the texture, every last detail capable of capturing.

Will ran his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, but then took a fistful of it, held Hannibal fast, bringing him back to himself for a moment. Will began stroking himself, his voice husky when he commanded, “Open your mouth, just a little.”

Hannibal did as he was told, licking his lips just as Will began to rub the head of his cock back and forth, across Hannibal’s lips, against his eager tongue, and he heard himself asking, “Please?”

Will pulled his head back, forcing Hannibal to look up at him again, the position slightly uncomfortable, but entirely arousing in a way he hadn’t expected. Will looked almost wild above him, muscles tensed, chest heaving. “As much as I give you, only,” he announced, and Hannibal allowed his consent to be shown in his eyes.

This time, Will seemed to tease him all the more, brushing gently at his lips, only to return and push past them, allowing Hannibal to wrap his lips around the head of his cock for a moment, before it was taken away again. It was maddening, and yet he found himself reveling in the denial, wanting the ordeal to go on indefinitely.

Will shifted his grip, releasing Hannibal’s hair in order to take him by the jaw, and the back of his head, a soft, excited sound escaping as he thrust deeply into Hannibal’s mouth, all while holding him in place, fingers tight and possessive. Hannibal gave himself over to Will’s control, moving only his tongue, dragging and curling it around the slick, shifting hardness whenever Will entered him, or wrapping his lips tight, and sucking greedily whenever Will gave him only the head.

After what felt like a glorious eternity, Will released him, settling for a hand against Hannibal’s cheek, thumb brushing back and forth over the curve of his cheekbone as he stroked himself, eyes on Hannibal’s mouth as he approached orgasm. Hannibal watched greedily, marveling at the privilege, but then Will shifted once more, pushing himself into Hannibal’s mouth at the last possible moment, stroking his face, and his hair as he cried out in pleasure. 

Hannibal sighed in pleasure, swallowing greedily as his mouth was flooded with Will’s release, blissfully uncaring about anything in the world aside from yet another bridge crossed, strengthened, and then Will was pulling out, breaking the spell. A moment later, he was on Hannibal’s lap, hands back in Hannibal’s hair as he kissed him, softly, over and over again.

“That was fun.”

Not sure why he was doing so, Hannibal found himself laughing loudly, then pulling Will into a tight embrace, face pressed against the curve of his neck. Oh, and how he loved him in that moment, marveled at the feel of him, the lingering taste of him.

The sound of people approaching dragged Hannibal from his reverie, and it was with great effort that he stilled his heart, erased the lingering smile from his face, so that when he found himself face to face with Samuel Anderson, there was naught but the calm, undisturbed surface to be seen.

“Dr. Lecter,” Samuel said pleasantly, taking his seat and smiling cheerfully up at the orderly who shackled him to the table before leaving them alone. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

“Certainly not,” Hannibal answered, folding his hands against the table. “Have you been well?”

“Dr. Chilton runs a fine establishment. I’m sure you’ll find me much improved.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Hannibal said, his tone pleasant, but more professionally distant than it had been in the past. “Support is important for one’s mental health.”

Samuel smiled, his eyes twinkling, and Hannibal wished again for an opportunity to explore the hidden places in Samuel’s mind. What dark delights might he find lurking there? Temptation stirred, but he smothered it, remaining true to the purpose of his visit.

“I’m afraid my visit must be short.” The smile faded a bit around the edges, and Samuel’s eyes narrowed slightly as he tipped his head to the side, curious now. “I have recently begun working with the F.B.I. in a more official capacity.”

Silence stretched out between them, as Samuel began to grasp what would follow, and shifted to sit back in his seat, shoulders squared. “I see.” His nostrils flared momentarily, but then the smile was back in place, at odds with the coldness in his eyes. “Agent Crawford?”

“Indeed.”

“Ah.” Samuel’s smile wavered just a moment, then shifted into something boyishly self deprecating. “Despite my best attempts, I’m afraid Agent Crawford never did warm to me.”

“So it would seem.”

“I take it this will be our last visit then?”

Hannibal, despite the odd compulsion to indicate otherwise, nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“I appreciate you coming to tell me in person, Dr. Lecter,” Samuel said, “although I must admit to being disappointed. I find you,” he trailed off, eyes flashing before he settled on, “interesting. I had hoped… but, well. Who knows what the future holds?”

“I’m sure Dr. Chilton will keep me apprised of your progress,” Hannibal said, not looking away as Samuel stared him down. “You’re in good hands, here.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you again for your help. All the best to you, sir.” Samuel rose to his feet, hands coming up as far as possible, the shackles clanging loudly in the room.

“And to you, Samuel.”

Hannibal stood as well, accepted the extended hand, shaking it as Samuel had intended, before crossing back over to the door to rap his knuckles against the glass. On the other side, the orderly shifted, expression oddly insolent as he slowly went about opening the door.

Just as he stepped across the threshold, Hannibal heard Samuel add, “Do give my regards to Mr. Graham, won’t you? Let him know I have all the time in the world, if he ever wants to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is posted so late! My schedule has gotten crazier, rather than better. XD I'm just glad to not have to make people wait another day. We all needed more of the Hannibal Dick, am I right? ;)
> 
> Breaking up is hard to do, Hannibal, but Will should be happy you're no longer going to have long, heartfelt chats with Mischa's biological ( _totally peculiar, murdering, manipulative, and also physically attractive_ ) father when you should be at home taking care of business.


	17. The Best of Both Worlds

Alana smiled as Hannibal carried out her birthday cake, even though Beverly booed, demanding to know, “Where are all the candles?”

“Don’t be rude,” Alana laughed, beaming at Hannibal, and the single candle atop her cake. “Thank you, Hannibal.”

“Best to simply celebrate the happy occasion,” he intoned, stepping aside once the cake was placed before Alana. “Many happy returns.”

“Happy birthday,” Will and Beverly managed at the same time.

Will found himself grinning as he watched Alana blowing out her candle, bouncing Mischa on his knee. “Just wait, you’ll have a birthday soon,” he said, dropping a kiss atop her head.

“Oh man, I can’t wait to see how ridiculous you two are with her birthdays.” Beverly was shaking her head, but looked exceptionally pleased. “Hannibal, if you get her a pony, I swear…”

“I’m sure you’ll agree, Mischa has all the animal companionship she could ever desire.”

“How _do_ you keep the dog hair off of everything, by the way?” Beverly seemed genuinely curious, right up until a slice of cake arrived on her plate.

Will murmured his thanks as Hannibal placed a slice of cake in front of him, then shifted Mischa so he could have a hand free for eating. It was strange, having the two women in the house, especially after the last visit from Alana. He’d caught her watching him off and on over the course of the evening, but the look in her eyes seemed genuinely pleased, and so he had found himself relaxing as the evening progressed.

Despite how much better he was feeling as of late, the lead up to the dinner had been surprisingly stressful. Things had been going so well between Hannibal and himself that a large, irrational part of him was worried any change in their routine would result in a backslide. Instead, rather than disturbing the peace, Alana and Beverly had made the changes he’d noticed in Hannibal all the more apparent.

Of course, if they noticed any difference in their host’s behavior, neither guest made any mention of it. Will doubted it was anything obvious, though, for it was all around the eyes, and the almost microscopic movements around the man’s mouth. Seeing Hannibal now, and remembering the Hannibal that was, he was continually shocked that there had ever been any doubt of the man’s homicidal nature. Clever bastard that he was, he had hidden everything in plain sight.

Now, though, there was an almost relaxed air about him that had been missing even when Hannibal had left killing behind. Perhaps, against all odds, even as Will was learning to live with Hannibal’s past, Hannibal was learning to live for a different future.

“Not to spoil the good mood,” Alana began, pausing to take a sip of her coffee, “but I saw Frederick Chilton yesterday. He asked me to thank you again for sending him Samuel Anderson.”

Will felt the muscle in his jaw tense, and forced himself to relax, glancing over to watch Hannibal’s mouth twitch with displeasure. There was something else there, as well, but he wasn’t sure what.

“I’m sure we have much to look forward to when Frederick publishes,” Hannibal said after a moment.

Alana smiled at this, fiddling with her fork for a moment. To Will, it looked almost as if she was about to say something, then thought better of it, her eyes on Hannibal all the while. The expression made him nervous for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down.

“Well, those two deserve each other,” Beverly said, making a face. “Anderson is a creepy suck up, and Chilton is desperate, and vain. Perfect couple.”

Surprisingly, Hannibal seemed put out by this, although he covered well. “Have you seen him?” Will asked. His eyes were on Alana, but through his peripheral vision he could make out Hannibal’s sudden stillness at the question.

Alana also looked a bit uncomfortable. “Yes, actually,” she answered after a moment. “Frederick insisted.”

“How is he a doctor again?” Beverly asked. “I swear, it’s like he got a cool new toy, and needs to show it off.”

“You’re not far off.” Alana toyed with a bit of her cake, and snuck another glance at Hannibal. “Have you seen his cell?”

Hannibal took a sip of wine, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin before answering. “I have not.”

While there was clearly something going unsaid, Will could tell Hannibal was not lying about this, small consolation that was. He’d clearly been to see him again, perhaps more than once, and had said nothing of it. 

“Is there something special about his cell?” Will asked.

Alana made a noncommittal noise, lifting one shoulder. “He has a few more luxuries than the other patients,” she said. “Plenty of books, a little writing desk. I swear, he was eating home cooked food when I was there, too.”

“Is he going to Puppet Master his way out of there?” Beverley asked, sounding more than a bit nervous.

“More likely, Frederick is keeping his golden goose happy,” Hannibal answered.

“I swear, he’s going to write some awful thriller under a pseudonym,” Beverly groaned. “Ugh, I bet it’ll even be a best seller.”

“If Anderson doesn’t play him,” Will pointed out, eyes darting to meet Hannibal’s from across the table. “He’s exceptionally good at that.”

Will doubted Beverly or Alana noticed Hannibal’s reaction to this, but it was all there in his eyes. Will looked down at his plate, appetite gone, along with his good mood. Somehow, though, he managed to bluff his way through the rest of the evening, even though all he wanted was to corner Hannibal in order to demand answers.

Eventually, it was time to put Mischa to bed, the ritual altered so that Beverly and Alana could participate, while Hannibal busied himself with tidying up.

“Bev was right, you’ve totally become a dad,” Alana whispered to him. Despite his soured mood, Will smiled at this, feeling oddly proud. “I’m so happy for you, both of you.” Will ducked his head, shrugged his shoulders, and Alana gave him a friendly nudge. “You seem like you’re feeling much better.”

“I am,” he answered, wishing she’d decided on this topic of conversation earlier in the evening. At the moment, it felt less than the truth. He focused on Mischa, watching as she began to drift into sleep, and wrapped his affection for her around himself like a veil. “Still have a ways to go.”

“You’ll get there,” she assured him, and he accepted her kiss on the cheek without taking issue with her sentiment.

Wishing Alana a happy birthday once again as he walked her and Beverly to the door, Will couldn’t help but remember the last time she had visited; it was much the same when she crossed the threshold this time, the smile slipping off his face as he turned to face Hannibal. 

Instead of running away to hide himself in Abigail’s room as he had done the last time, Will stared at Hannibal, and waited. When he simply stood there, the picture of calm, Will’s patience cracked. “Really?”

Hannibal blinked, and tilted his head, but whatever it was he’d planned to offer as an excuse was left unsaid. “I have already made it clear to Samuel that my involvement in his rehabilitation has come to an end.”

“Carefully said,” Will answered. “If that’s the case, what is it that Alana saw, or heard, or found out that had her testing the waters?”

Hannibal sighed softly, and began loosening his tie as he walked into the living room, Will trailing behind him. “Likely, Alana recognized a drawing of mine,” Hannibal explained, settling down on the couch, giving Will his full attention. “One I presented to Samuel, upon his arrival at the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane.”

Will sat down in one of the chairs, wanting to keep a bit of distance between them for the duration of the conversation. He hadn’t known what to expect when asking the question, and at first blush was relieved. This sentiment quickly shifted though, as he pictured the time, and care Hannibal would have taken, coupled with the secrecy and level of intimacy involved with such a gift.

“What was the drawing of?”

Hannibal’s expression grew guarded, and Will felt the familiar dropping out sensation in his stomach. “The Anderson’s barn, of course,” Hannibal answered, tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip, almost as if he was tasting the words.

“Of course.”

Will remembered the barn well, as if it had been burned into his memory; it was the place where he had held onto Hannibal in a foolish attempt to hold onto their past, terrified of the future awaiting them once they left the structure behind. 

He thought of the boat in his dreams, Samuel’s lectures, talk of lines and the crossing of them. The barn had been a place of importance to both of the Anderson boys. Each of them, at varying times in their lives, had been transformed within its confines. Now, either by fate or chance, Will had his own connection to the place.

“Hannibal,” he said, an undercurrent of anger in his voice, “this would go much easier for both of us if you didn’t make me drag every last detail out of you.”

Will’s concern grew as the silence stretched out between them, but then there was a shift in Hannibal’s expression, almost as if a shaft of light had fallen upon his face, and Will could see the conflict there—Hannibal wasn’t trying to hide from him, he was simply embarrassed.

“I make no excuse for my behavior,” he finally said, his chin tilting, a spark of defiance in his eyes, “so please, do not mistake me. You are aware, more than any, of the… emptiness left in the wake of abandoning my craft.”

That his pulse didn’t immediately skyrocket, or his entire body tense with a fight or flight impulse was equal parts comforting and disturbing to Will. “Yes,” he answered, voice still even, and calm, not through pretense, but simply because he had grown accustomed to facing down this facet of Hannibal.

Hannibal watched him almost warily, not bothering to hide his surprise over Will’s reaction. “There was also the pain caused by your isolation,” he continued. “It should come as no surprise that the boy fascinated me. Fascinates me still.”

Will pulled off his glasses, resting them in his lap while he ran a hand over his face, headache forming behind his eyes. Hannibal was right, at least, because Will wasn’t surprised in the least. “I saw as much. Looking back… Well, I guess that’s hindsight.”

Samuel was like a saucer full of secret delicacies, all of them dark and bloody, suited perfectly to Hannibal’s palate. An artist in his own right, Anderson might have been only half of a whole, but he would have still been in a position to share all the sordid details of not only his crimes, but those of his brother, as well.

Will hated that a junkie after a fix was the first comparison he thought of, but it was hard to set aside the mental image of Hannibal easing his own withdrawal by helping himself to the equivalent of serial killer methadone, courtesy of Samuel Anderson’s psychic bloodletting.

“I had thought,” Hannibal worried at his lower lip with his teeth, looked at Will pleadingly. “But, perhaps you already understand?”

“You gave up something… something that was beautiful to you, and maybe at the time, it seemed like the sacrifice was for nothing. And maybe… maybe Anderson seemed like a safe bridge back to the comfort of that world. A way that would leave your promises intact.”

The relief that washed over Hannibal’s features suprised Will, not for its appearance, but for his own reaction to it. He rose from his seat, and joined Hannibal on the couch, the physical distance between them feeling wrong in the moment.

“The drawing was of the barn’s interior,” Hannibal continued, turning slightly so as to face Will. “Within, I presented him with something he had wished for above all else, but could never have had in this lifetime.”

Will leapt to the answer almost without realizing he’d arrived, the pendulum absent, but his mind taking avenues more often explored when visiting a crime scene. “The best of both worlds,” he said, and when he closed his eyes, he saw a flash of Abigail in the morgue, Jacob’s head wound, then each of them reassembled, arms reaching out in supplication.

“The very thing I wished for,” Hannibal agreed, “foolishly.” Hannibal took Will’s hand, and although he tensed in surprise, he squeezed Hannibal’s fingers with his own, didn’t pull away. “I _have_ chosen this world, Will. Painful as it is at times.”

“Has it gotten any better?” Will asked, forcing himself to meet Hannibal’s eyes with his own, even though he would have preferred to keep them closed.

“Yes,” and it was, thankfully, the truth. “Time has its way with all things, and I am at its mercy, as are all god’s creations. There will come a day when the sun will rise and set, and in the space between I will not remember, or think upon the life I once had. That this day has not yet arrived does not mean it never shall. When it does, others will follow.”

Will swallowed around the lump in his throat, thinking of his own pain, and loss, and worried at the ease with which he was learning to _accept_. “Hannibal,” he asked, licking his lips, mouth suddenly dry, “Anderson is very good at reading people.” Hannibal’s eyes flashed, and the sinking feeling returned.

“Like calls out to like,” Hannibal said softly, and Will thought of the Anderson of his dreams, the one that knew what Hannibal was, wanted him to see and know, as well. “He may suspect I am not what I appear to be, but any more than that?”

“He fought you.” Will thought of Hannibal, wearing Samuel’s blood like a badge of honor. The parts of the altercation that had been captured by the cameras in the parking garage had painted a vicious picture. “We should be careful.”

“Of course.”

Will shifted, letting Hannibal see the worry in his eyes. “You should have told me about this,” he said, biting into his lower lip, swallowing past the hurt. “I can’t keep doing this, Hannibal. There are only so many times I can bend before I break.”

Feeling as if his body weighed far more than it had any right to, Will stood up, pulling his hand from Hannibal’s in the process. “It’s full disclosure, or nothing. So, if we’re going to continue, you need to take a day or two, and figure out if there’s anything else I need to know. Then, you tell me about it.”

Hannibal seemed surprised, the sorrow that had clouded his eyes shifting into disbelief, then relief, and appreciation. “Very well.”

Will sighed, and stroked the side of Hannibal’s face. In his heart, he had drawn a line in the sand. “Be thorough in your inventory, Hannibal,” Will said, “because if this happens again, that’s it for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line in the sand, Hannibal! I recommend you check yourself before you wreck yourself.


	18. Led Astray

“I feel different.” 

Will's eyes searched the corners of the rooms—although it was true, he’d only said it outloud in order to see what would happen—yet he found nothing at all. Despite understanding this was indicative of his progress, his heart twisted painfully with disappointment. It had been three weeks or more since Abigail had made an appearance, and he was beginning to suspect he’d never see her again, had missed the chance to say goodbye, and tell her how sorry he was.

“Describe the difference for me.”

He ran a hand over his face, the feeling of faint stubble against his palm distracting him, flooding his mind with the smell and taste of Hannibal. Will resisted the urge to linger on the memory of Hannibal’s stubble against his hands earlier that morning, as he’d lost himself to the heat and wetness of Hannibal’s mouth.

“Like I’m no longer hiding.”

Bedelia’s mouth shifted a bit as she tilted her chin, studying him, and the movement so reminded him of Hannibal that he found himself fighting off the sudden urge to kiss her.

“From yourself, the world, or Hannibal?”

“All of the above?” He tucked his chin into his chest, and didn’t bother to hide the small, self deprecating smile. “Abigail is gone. For good, I think.”

Bedelia didn’t so much as blink, and Will realized she’d known all along that he’d been lying about that. The look she gave him said more than words could have, and he felt himself actually blushing under the scrutiny.

“Right, I wasn’t exactly honest about that. I’m telling the truth now, though.”

She crossed her legs, smoothing out her skirt, and let the silence stretch between them, until he felt compelled to add, “Sorry.”

“We are not friends, Will,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “I’m your doctor. Hiding symptoms only prevents me from treating you effectively. My feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t wish to discuss something, but it is necessary for me to know there is something to discuss.”

“You already knew,” he pointed out, surprised at the coldness in his tone. “Abigail is gone. I’ve stopped thinking about her every day, and so when I do think about her… There’s a lot of guilt, still. She shouldn’t be so easily forgotten.”

“You haven’t forgotten her, Will. You’ve simply started living your life again.”

He swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat, biting back the urge to tell her to shut up, because his first thought was that he shouldn’t be allowed to do that, not while Abigail couldn’t. It was a knee jerk reaction, though, not something he actually felt, not really. What he really felt was relief.

“Maybe.”

“In what ways are you no longer hiding from Hannibal?”

Will let his head roll back on his shoulders, eyes losing focus as he stared at the ceiling. As of late, he felt less and less compelled to return to his sessions with Bedelia. Hannibal was the one he wanted to talk to, had been all along, only before… Well, admittedly, before it hadn’t been an option.

“He knows where I stand now,” Will eventually answered.

“And where is that, exactly?”

He caught himself just before answering her, swallowing back the words that matched his first thought, accompanied as it was by a vivid mental image of Hannibal on the ground, elegant hands curled around Will’s ankle, and calf. The truth was, despite everything, where he “stood” was with one foot on Hannibal’s neck.

“We’re on equal footing,” he said instead. 

It wasn’t precisely a lie. Despite knowing the power he held over Hannibal, Will had no desire to wield it, not exactly. All he wanted was a clearly defined end point between Hannibal’s past, and their future.

The thing with Samuel had been upsetting, but after spending most of the night lying awake thinking on it, Will had realized he wasn’t actually surprised. Not in the least. What was surprising was the ways in which it _hadn’t_ bothered him. His first and foremost concern was making sure Hannibal’s— _their_ —secret remained intact, their family undisturbed. He could feel the conversation they needed to have looming on the horizon, and while part of him wanted to push it off as long as possible, another wanted to just get it over with.

It was clear from her expression that Bedelia didn’t believe what he’d said, so he added, “Equal may be an exaggeration. I no longer doubt his commitment.”

“What of your own?”

Will licked his lips, smiling an empty smile at her. “We’re two sides of the same coin,” he answered carefully. “I’ve come to terms with that.”

“Some would classify your relationship as,” Beverly paused, waiting for him to make eye contact with her before finishing with, “dangerous.”

Will refused to look away, and felt again the strange resolve that had taken up residence in his heart and mind as of late. 

“Only to anyone trying to come between us.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hannibal had not taken Will’s request lightly. It had been weighing upon him, an unfamiliar sense of fear leaving him with a cold, unsettled feeling. For a start, he wasn’t sure the extent of confession Will required of him, and so had to prepare himself as if a full inventory of his life was expected. To say this idea was less than appealing was an understatement.

Oddly enough, despite the knowledge of Hannibal’s involvement with Samuel,  even with his disclosure yet to be delivered, Will had continued on as if all was normal. The morning after had found him reaching for Hannibal as had become customary, the encounter tinged with a tenderness and urgency that had left him breathless.

Their routine with Mischa had remained undisturbed, they had eaten together, spoken of their day, all as if everything was as it should be. Hannibal wasn’t sure if Will was doing it to remind him of what he would lose if he was less than honest, or because he was fully confident of Hannibal doing as he’d been told. There was much to like about either scenario, if he was being honest.

He hadn’t needed to be told that Will expected him to be the one to decide when they had the conversation, and that if he took too much time in doing so, the current peace between them would cease to exist. As a result, he’d allowed himself only a handful of days before, after settling Mischa down for the night, he poured himself a stiff drink, and waited for Will to join him.

“So it’s tonight, is it?”

“It is.”

“I might just join you, then,” Will said, tipping his head in the direction of Hannibal’s glass.

Hannibal watched as Will poured himself a bit of whiskey, admiring the curve of his wrist, the ways his fingers cradled the glass. Strange how even after all this time, he was ever noticing the tiny marvels and wonders of Will, powerless against his own obsession with the man.

Watching Will swallow, lick his lips clean, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, Hannibal almost neglected to take note of the words being said to him.

“I meant what I said—I’m only interested in what could potentially come back to haunt us.”

Some part of him settled at this. “Very well. It may come as little surprise to you that over the years I have planted many seeds.”

Will’s wrist rotated, and Hannibal watched the whiskey swirl within the glass, taking note of the unfocused look in Will’s eyes. “The sort of seeds you wished to plant in me?”

Hannibal licked his lips, tipping his head in acknowledgement. “The very ones. One or two may have acted out their darker impulses, as a result.”

“I’m guessing they’re still out there? Working?”

“I assume as much.”

Will frowned deeply, the muscles of his jaw tense. “And if they were caught?”

“Unlikely they would make mention of me, but an investigation would certainly show they’d been under my care, once upon a time.”

Hannibal sipped his drink, allowing the flavors to roll across his tongue, a paltry distraction. Will scrubbed at his face, expression dark, contemplative.

“So, you could potentially be questioned in regards to their mental state at the time, but it’s unlikely someone would come to the conclusion that their doctor planted the idea of committing the crimes in the first place.”

Although he disliked Will’s tone of voice, which was a little too heavily sarcastic, Hannibal wasn’t in a position to disagree with what had been said. “Precisely.”

The quiet stretched out, Hannibal lost to the study of Will’s profile, the sound of his breathing, the smell of him in the room.

“Samuel may have suspicions that I am less than ethical, but nothing by way of proof. Our conversations are recorded, and nothing incriminating was said.” Hannibal paused, adding, “He did wish for me to share his regards, and offer you his ear, if ever you wished to talk.”

Will turned at this, his eyes narrowed as he studied Hannibal’s face. The doctor resisted the urge to touch him, to pull Will close, and begin a soft exploration of his mouth. To smooth away the furrow in his brow, soften his gaze with affection. He was not foolish enough to attempt it.

“I might,” Will said after careful consideration, his words catching Hannibal off guard. “I feel like we’ve had many conversations, but it was only the one. After Abigail. Maybe I’m overdue.”

“You must do as you see fit, of course,” Hannibal agreed, his curiosity piqued despite himself.

“We’ll see.”

“I suppose it also worth mentioning that more than one patient has left me a rather generous sum.”

To his surprise, Will let out a dry chuckle at this, shaking his head and running a hand through his curls. The sound should have been a relief, but left Hannibal feeling decidedly irked.

“Sorry, it’s just,” Will used his glass of whiskey to gesture at the room around them, “I’d always wondered where all the money came from. Now I know.”

“Yes, well,” Hannibal sniffed, feeling his mouth twist against his will. “I have expensive tastes.”

“In more ways than one.”

Yet, somehow, Will’s eyes were still warm, despite the heavy tone. It eased some of Hannibal’s irritation, at any rate. “The house… it’s clean, forensically?”

“Of course,” and Hannibal was unable to keep his voice entirely free of outrage. He opened his mouth, thinking of Mischa asleep upstairs, wondering how Will could ask such a thing, when he was silenced by a warm hand upon his thigh.

“Not our house, your house,” Will clarified, and Hannibal’s outrage evaporated. “I assume you were butchering people there, storing them for a time before… preparing them?”

“I took a great deal of care, when departing. No trace remains.”

Will finished off his whiskey, cradled the empty glass with both hands, staring at it pensively. It was so very strange, to be having this conversation, to make no effort to hide, or lessen the severity of his deeds, and yet… And yet, Will remained, did not run from the room, made no effort whatsoever to close himself off to Hannibal. The silence between them was almost accepting, even.

“No unfinished side projects?”

“Aside from my dalliance with Samuel, none since I found myself fascinated with you.” Will didn’t turn to face him, but there was a slight creasing at the mouth and eyes, a soft smile over these words. “You very quickly became my focus.”

Will shook his head. “Are you seriously flirting with me right now?”

“On the contrary. I am merely answering honestly,” Hannibal countered. “As far as I am aware, there are no enemies lurking in the shadows, and others who have shown signs of suspicion over the years were dealt with along the way.”

“Good. What about Bedelia?”

This question caught Hannibal off guard, as they had already discussed her, prior to Will’s first session. “As I said, suspicions only, and a desire to avoid scrutiny of any kind.”

“You can’t blame me for asking,” Will pointed out, an eyebrow arched at Hannibal.

His eyes seemed to issue a challenge, and Hannibal found himself swelling with pride. How very marvelous his Will was, how very resilient. How very foolish he had been, for ever wishing to change him.

“I suppose not.”

Will reached for his glass, finished what little remained, then set it on the table beside his own empty vessel. Slowly, he repositioned himself until he was seated in Hannibal’s lap, never breaking eye contact, even at the first touch of his lips against Hannibal’s own.

“Anything else I need to worry about?” Will asked, the words pressed against Hannibal’s jaw, his body a warm, welcome weight.

“I did my best to clean up loose ends, before embarking upon this experiment,” Hannibal explained.

“Good. Next time you feel the impulse to plant seeds, talk to me,” Will insisted, hands cupping Hannibal’s face, thumbs brushing against cheekbones. “That goes for other urges, too.”

“Very well,” Hannibal agreed, lost in the darkness of Will’s dilated pupils.

Will’s mouth was on him again, the kiss more purposeful this time, and Hannibal allowed himself to sink into the sensation, finding a strange, heady delight in the certainty that Will was fully aware of the power he wielded, was comfortable using it to bend Hannibal to his will, but only to their mutual benefit. There was a strange safety that came with Will having the upper hand, and so he allowed himself the luxury of being led astray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will, you own dat ass, we all know it! You feel different because you know it is only a matter of time before... well... *cue moaning*


	19. For the Best

Will struggled to catch his breath, but his heart and lungs seemed to have a mind of their own, were almost at war with each other, with him; fitful starts and stops as he gasped, and shuddered.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, and behind him, Hannibal made a low, dangerous sound, and did as was instructed. 

Will grabbed fistfulls of the sheets as he looked over his shoulder, hair plastered to the side of his face. Hannibal’s eyes were narrowed, and full of possessive affection, just a bit of pink in his cheeks. He bit into his lower lip, tightened his grip on Will’s hips, and with a last, rough thrust, finally entered Will fully.

And he could only gasp again, let his arms go out from under him. It felt like the first time, all over again, and he wanted to laugh at that, almost suggested they relocate, head down into Hannibal’s study and just fuck on the desk instead, but he couldn’t quite get the words out. 

A soft, vulnerable sound was all he could manage, and Hannibal’s hips jerked in response, the unyielding hardness of him prompting Will to shift his legs further apart, canting his hips in the process. Somehow, Hannibal found a way to push himself deeper still, and Will squeezed his eyes hard enough to see stars in the darkness behind them.

Slowly, maddeningly slowly, Hannibal began to withdraw, his fingers maintaining an almost vicious viselike grip on Will’s hips, preventing him from moving, so he was left no other option than to press his face into the mattress, gasping Hannibal’s name, as he shook with anticipation.

There was still a bit of discomfort, but it was fading fast, and really, it was his own fault. Hannibal would have happily spent hours with his fingers buried in Will’s ass, mouth around his cock, bringing him to the brink of orgasm over, and over again, until he was pliant, and more than ready to accommodate Hannibal’s cock. 

That hadn’t been what he wanted, though, not in the least, and he’d made it clear enough while they were still downstairs, a hand fisted in Hannibal’s hair while they kissed, Will in Hannibal’s lap, feeling the doctor’s growing hardness against his ass.

“Take me upstairs and fuck me,” he’d ordered, and if he’d sounded desperate, Hannibal made no mention, simply thrust up against Will while simultaneously pulling him into another kiss.

Will was still surprised they’d made it up the stairs, had half expected Hannibal to strip then and there, but they had, somehow they had. He’d pulled Hannibal onto the bed with him, tearing at his clothes, until Hannibal had pinned his hands above his head, taken Will’s cock in his hand, and stroked him almost too tenderly.

“We can take our time,” Hannibal had suggested, hand a slow, teasing torment.

Will was already sweating, and almost overwhelmed with sensation, and had growled, “Next time,” loving the way those words changed Hannibal’s expression. “Tonight I need it like this. Please, Hannibal?”

He’d been released after that, each of them pulling frantically at their clothing, until Will found himself being flipped onto his stomach, a slick, insistent finger pushing inside him, and felt some of the urgency shifting, ever so slightly. It was going to happen, finally, after what felt like a lifetime apart, and Will smiled against the sheets.

Despite Will’s pleas to get on with it, Hannibal still took his time working his fingers deep inside of Will, stretching him, probing him, drawing shuddering gasps from him. He kept one hand wrapped tightly around the base of Will’s cock, preventing him from stroking himself. Will could only pant, and squirm, and try to get more of everything as he tried to keep himself upright enough to be able to admire the sight of Hannibal’s hand curled possessively around him.

Eventually, his begging won out. 

“You’re very pushy tonight,” Hannibal scolded. 

He pulled Will upright, squirted some lube into his hands, and arched an eyebrow. Will didn’t have to be told what to do, he wrapped his hands around Hannibal’s cock, stroking him enthusiastically while covering him in the lube, all while Hannibal kissed him breathless.

Hannibal worked even more lube into Will before he began rubbing the head of his cock back and forth, again and again, each time applying a little more pressure, but never actually pushing his way inside. It was maddening, the slight sting, the very start of feeling stretched, but it wasn’t until Will had growled Hannibal’s name that the man finally, _finally_ , stopped teasing.

And then it was happening, and all Will could do was try to hold on, to not make too much noise, because if he woke Mischa, Hannibal would _stop_ , and if Hannibal stopped, Will was going to lose his mind, without question.

He did his best to relax, to not tense against the welcome invasion. Familiar as it was, it had been a long time since he’d had Hannibal’s cock inside of him, and so… it was only to be expected. It was just the right side of uncomfortable, the right level of overwhelming, because all there was in the moment was Hannibal, slowly reshaping him, the promise of pleasure on the horizon.

Hannibal, bastard that he was, pulled out entirely, causing Will’s eyes to flutter open in panic, his mouth open with a protest on his lips even as Hannibal entered him again, having added even more lube, a long, unforgiving thrust that moved Will further up the bed.

Will wanted to cry it was so good, it was exactly what he needed, as pleasure joined in with the aftermath of pain, his entire body singing, as Hannibal began a steady, enthusiastic rhythm.

There would be bruises on his hips, and more likely than not he would be a bit uncomfortable in the morning, but Will needed that, needed to be able to look at himself in the mirror and know this had happened, that this final hurdle between them had been cleared.

Hands slid up his sides, across his chest, pulling him up away from the mattress, and Will managed to get his arms beneath him, propping himself up on all fours, his head hanging low. Fingers teased his nipples, and he jerked in response, eyes flying open. He could see his own cock bobbing between his thighs, a thin stream of precome stretching between him and the sheets.

“I don’t want to come yet,” he babbled, and behind him, Hannibal chuckled. 

He pinched Will’s nipples once more before his hands were moving again, one resting on Will’s shoulder, while the other pushing at his lower back, shifting the angle of penetration. Using his new grip, he began riding Will hard, the room filling with the sound of skin against skin, and Will’s own frantic noises of pleasure.

“I missed this so much,” he admitted, and swore he felt Hannibal throb inside him in response.

Maddeningly, he slowed his pace, but Will couldn’t summon his words of protest, could only sigh with pleasure as he was pulled up, and back, until he was flush against Hannibal. For an agonizing moment, there was no movement aside from their ragged breathing, Hannibal’s arm wrapped tightly around him, holding him upright. 

“As did I.” Hannibal’s words were hot against Will’s skin, his mouth leaving a damp trail along his neck, and shoulder, as he kissed his way between Will’s shoulder blades, slowly resuming his thrusting, although this time, it was more gentle. “I thought I might go mad.”

“I know, Hannibal,” Will gasped, as Hannibal’s hands roamed his body, fingers teasing his nipples once more, before sliding down over the trembling muscles of his abdomen. His knuckles brushed against Will’s cock, and he shuddered at the sensation. “I never stopped loving you.”

The noise Hannibal made in response to this was as beautiful as it was heartbreaking. Will had a moment’s panic as Hannibal released him, pulling out entirely, but before he could say anything he was being flipped onto his back, pulled across the mattress, and then they were face to face, Hannibal thrusting back home.

“Say it again,” Hannibal asked, his hair hanging loose over his face, his eyes wild, and wide, and vulnerable. He rocked his hips gently, one hand braced beside Will’s head, while the other cupped his face, thumb stroking over the swell of his lower lip.

“Never,” Will insisted, arching his body up to meet Hannibal’s, “I never stopped loving you.”

Hannibal’s mouth was on his then, kissing him like he might not ever get another chance, and Will wrapped his arms around him, pulled him even closer, rocking himself back and forth on Hannibal’s cock, moaning into his mouth.

They were covered in a sheen of sweat, and he still couldn’t seem to catch his breath, but it didn’t matter, all that mattered was the feeling of Hannibal buried inside of him, the feeling of him in Will’s arms, and against his mouth.

He held on tightly, even after Hannibal pulled away in order to take a shuddering breath, tried to pull him even deeper. Hannibal kissed and sucked along his collarbone, his throat, bending down to drag his tongue over one nipple, then the next, all while Will stroked the side of his face, and along his shoulders.

They locked eyes, and Will felt almost as if he was falling into Hannibal’s blown pupils, captivated by the love and adoration and—he could admit it now—madness he found there. How many times had he wondered at this look before, not realizing what it was he was seeing. 

The knowing of it had terrified him, threatened to destroy him, but now… If it ever saw the light of day, not a one of their friends would understand this, would accept that he could know the truth of this man, and still, _still_ love him, despite everything. 

Hannibal fucked him, deep, and slow, and thorough, his eyes never leaving Will’s, and it was clear he still expected rejection, even now. Will simply shook his head, cupped Hannibal’s face, and refused to look away. 

“All of you,” he said, his voice rough and raw, and Hannibal’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “All of you, Hannibal.”

The smile Hannibal wore should have been disturbing—there was far too much triumph visible—but Will simply returned it with one of his own, his heart hammering fitfully in his chest as he allowed the truth of the words to wash through him, because it _was_ true. Hannibal might be a monster, but Will loved him anyway, couldn’t stop loving him if he tried.

“You’re mine,” Hannibal said softly, and there was nothing questioning in his tone. It was simply a statement of fact.

“Yours,” Will agreed.

Hannibal placed his palm against Will’s chest, effectively pinning him down, slid his other hand around Will’s cock, and began stroking in time with his thrusts. Each time Hannibal slammed home, a soft sound of pleasure was torn from Will’s mouth, and as much as he wanted to watch Hannibal’s fist as it worked back and forth over the head of his cock, he couldn’t pull his gaze away from Hannibal’s eyes, his face.

He was still staring into Hannibal’s eyes when he came, body shuddering violently with the force of it, Hannibal still stroking him, even as he thrust harder into Will’s ass. Will gasped as Hannibal let go, but smiled when Hannibal lifted his sticky fingers to his mouth in order to suck them clean. 

As if the taste of Will’s come was what had been missing, he let loose with his own noise of pleasure, jerking roughly into Will, hot, and hard, and insistent and Will tightened himself around Hannibal’s cock, milking the orgasm from him as best he could.

Will wasn’t sure how long they remained tangled together like that, but at some point, he found himself being kissed, slowly, and deeply. He couldn’t seem to get the smile off of his face, but Hannibal was smiling as well, so perhaps it was for the best. 

Perhaps it had _all_ been for the best.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Will, you so crazy for the Hannibal Dick, good to see you've come to terms with it all. Although, I guess he could be pushier. Hmm...


	20. Time Well Spent

The boat was the last place Will expected to find himself, but there he was, out on the water again. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of the past, expecting to find Samuel Anderson waiting for him, but when he opened his eyes, he found he was sharing the boat with someone else entirely.

“Hi.”

Will felt his mouth tremble through the smile. “Hi, Abigail.”

She smiled back, and for a moment he was able to forget he was dreaming, because this wasn’t the Abigail he’d somehow found himself haunted by, this was the bright eyed woman he’d loved currently sitting opposite him. It was a lie, he knew that—he knew far too much about lies—she was nothing more than an insubstantial trick of the mind, but knowing the truth did little to soften his emotional response. She was real enough for him.

“It’s good to see you.”

Her smile grew as she tucked her hair behind her ears, and he found himself momentarily distracted by the scar on her neck, lost in a memory of blood, and panic, and Hannibal. More than ever, Will was convinced that day in her kitchen, shaking while watching Hannibal calmly keep her from death, had been the moment that irrevocably bound them to each other.

“I can’t stay long,” Abigail said, and Will dragged his eyes away from her throat. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”

In that way one knows only in dreams, Will understood this was goodbye for good. There would be no more surprise visits from Abigail, he wouldn’t find himself watching Mischa’s first steps, only to look up and find Abigail there as well, silent and broken, yet somehow still connected to their family.

It should have been a relief. If he was being honest, the recent weeks without seeing her had been peaceful, and he had begun to move on, even as he held onto the understanding that it was likely temporary.

Now, though, was different. She seemed lighter, and he thought of her as she’d been when pregnant, that strange, tender sort of happiness she’d carried with her. Anticipation, and excitement, and all of the feelings that belonged to the living, and had no place with the dead.

That was what made the idea of parting for good so difficult. This wasn’t saying goodbye to the mutated echo of Abigail, this was _his_ Abigail, the one who broke his heart, even while leaving behind a reason for him to go on living.

“Where are you going?”

Abigail smiled again, a little sadder this time, as she took Will’s hand. “I’m already gone, Will. I’m dead.”

“I know that,” he insisted, squeezing her fingers.

“You don’t need me anymore,” she explained. “Do you remember what I said?”

Will sighed, laughing, even as the world around him became momentarily hazy and indistinct, seen as it was through a veil of tears. His smile trembled, but remained, as he studied the contours of her face.

He cleared his throat, and answered her. “You said it would get better.”

“That future you dreamed of? You _have_ it now.”

With that, Will broke down, but Abigail was there to hold him, rock him gently even as the boat rocked them both. She was warm, and smelled as he’d remembered, and he missed her _so much_. 

“You would have been a good mother.” He hardly recognized his own voice, choked with tears. “She’s beautiful. I’ll take care of her, I promise.”

“I know you will,” Abigail stroked his cheek and smiled again. “You both will. You’re a family now.”

And there was that word, the one he’d always had trouble with. It fit now, though, it made sense in ways it never had before, and just hearing it made his heart clench with a sort of happy desperation. He wanted to be there, with them, his family, to really _be_ there. But it wouldn’t happen until he let Abigail go.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Will straightened up, and took her face in his hands. “I love you. I’ll never stop missing you.” He kissed her forehead, and each of her cheeks, and marveled at the warmth of her. “Goodbye, Abigail.”

She curled her hands over his, and smiled. “Bye, Will. Kiss Mischa for me.”

When he opened his eyes again, he was staring at his ceiling, heart hammering in his chest. It was early, not even five yet, but Will doubted he’d be able to sleep again. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite calm his breathing, couldn’t stop the tears, and so it came as little surprise when Hannibal stirred beside him.

“Abigail was in my dream,” Will explained before Hannibal had a chance to ask why he was crying.

Hannibal stroked his cheek, pushing aside the tears with his thumb, before pulling Will into his arms. “Would you like to tell me about what you saw?”

Will curled into and against Hannibal, breathing him in with a sigh, as Hannibal stroked his back. “She looked good, like Abigail,” Will said with a sad little laugh. When he licked his lips, he came away with the taste of Hannibal’s skin. “We said goodbye. For good, this time.”

“To be able to say goodbye is a gift,” Hannibal’s voice rattled Will, deep, soft, familiar, the words ringing of truth. “Not all are afforded such an opportunity.”

“I know,” Will sighed. “Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened, if she’d lived.”

Will wasn’t sure he’d be where he was now if things had happened differently. Without Abigail’s absence, without Mischa’s sudden introduction to his life, would he have been able to find his way back to Hannibal? He wanted to believe there would have been some way, but…

“We’re a family now,” Will said, shoving the thoughts aside, “you and me and Mischa.”

Hannibal stroked his hair, and Will could hear the smile in his voice. “Strange, to find oneself with such a thing, after so very long.”

“We’ll protect her,” Will insisted, thinking of another Mischa, even as Hannibal’s hold on him tightened.

“And each other, I hope.”

Will shifted, putting some space between them so that he could see Hannibal’s eyes. “Whatever it takes.”

Hannibal’s smile was sharp, dark, and possessive. It should have been uncomfortable to witness, like a wolf peering out through the eyes of a man, but it made Will’s heart seize with love and recognition. There was darkness in him, as well, and it waited, ready to be tapped into if the need to protect his family arose.

Will shifted again, the sadness he’d awoken with having been replaced by a strange, overwhelming sense of being _alive_. Hannibal had slowly been bringing him back to life, day after day after day, and he thought of the numbness of before, thought of the cold, angry weight of his heart in his chest, and marveled.

He could remember Abigail’s funeral, the all too brief moment of hope he’d been able to conjure, and shook his head in wonder, because _she had been right_. Somehow, she had been right all along.

“Whatever it takes, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal stroked the side of his face, thumb brushing the corner of Will’s mouth, and he turned into the caress, nuzzling Hannibal’s hand, pressing a kiss against the pad of his thumb. Hannibal traced his jaw, down to his collarbone, and even this simple touch had Will’s heart racing, heat beginning to pool between his legs.

Carefully, Hannibal leaned close enough to kiss, maintaining space between their bodies, so only the soft brush of lips and breath could be felt. Will made a soft, contented noise, but when he moved, Hannibal pulled back.

“Slower this time, I think,” he murmured, and Will felt himself twitch in response.

Hannibal traced his features slowly, just with his fingertips, hardly a sexual exploration in the least, but the want and hunger was there in his eyes for Will to see. It made his body warm, and he flung the blankets aside, needing Hannibal to see all of him. He rolled onto his back, stretched his arms above his head, tilting his hips, arching his back, watching as Hannibal licked his lips.

Fingers first, teasing down over his arms, and chest, circling around his nipples only to trace lower over his stomach, and hips. Will kept his eyes on Hannibal’s face, enjoying the careful way Hannibal was exploring him, tracing the muscles in his thighs, only to slide back up, brushing against his balls for the briefest of moments before heading back up to his stomach.

Carefully, almost reverently, Hannibal traced the raised, angry scar snaking its way up Will’s abdomen. He found himself thinking of the hospital again, of Hannibal peeling back the bandages in order to inspect what had been done to the body of the man he loved, and it hurt to think of, mostly because at the time he hadn’t understood nearly enough.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, and as if he’d been waiting for permission, Hannibal lowered his head. 

Will shuddered, his hips jerking a little at the warm, wet exploration of Hannibal’s tongue. Again and again, as if he was memorizing each bit of raised flesh, he licked and sucked along the expanse of the scar.

When he was done, there was a strange urgency about him that had been absent before. He placed a hand over Will’s chest, and all but growled, “I will not hesitate, if someone attempts to hurt you again.”

Will thought of Hannibal, of how he must have raged over Will’s injuries, must have needed to find and destroy the persons responsible. The fight in the parking garage made more sense, a necessary outlet for Hannibal’s wrath. 

Now that he had Will, all of Will, there was no other option. He wouldn’t hesitate, and neither would Will.

“Family,” was all Will said, and Hannibal’s mouth was on his, hot and urgent.

Will groaned, and wrapped himself around Hannibal, taking the weight of him contentedly. They kissed, and kissed, until Will’s lips felt oversensitized, until he couldn’t think straight, could only suck, and bite, and grind himself up against Hannibal, unable to catch his breath. Hannibal was unrelenting, all tongue and teeth and soft, needy noises, a hand fisted in Will’s hair.

It was a struggle, but Will managed to snake a hand between them, wrapped it around Hannibal, and began stroking, sweeping his thumb up and over the head of his cock, again and again.

“Patience,” Hannibal said, biting into the curve of Will’s shoulder before sitting up. He grabbed hold of both of Will’s hands, and with one of his, pinned them to the bed above Will’s head. Will could feel himself flush, heat roaring through his body, as his cock bobbed in front of him in time with the pounding of his heart.

Hannibal kissed him again, his free hand stroking Will’s sides, up the insides of his thighs again, teasingly light, until he took hold of a nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers, Will arching up into the contact. For the briefest of moments, his cock came into contact with Hannibal’s stomach, and he shuddered, tried to do it again.

Hannibal pulled back, applying more pressure to Will’s wrists, even as he swung a leg over him, straddling his chest. He took a moment to turn on the bedside lamp, and Will had to blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted. He had no complaints, though; this was far better, seeing the tensed body above him, Hannibal’s eyes and cock dark with lust.

“I need you in my mouth,” Will said, licking his lips, pushing a bit at Hannibal’s grasp on him. It was unrelenting, and he sighed contentedly, tipping his head, mouth falling open. Hannibal smiled down at him, took hold of himself, and began stroking, slow, teasing strokes, until Will blurted, “Please?”

“As you wish,” Hannibal consented, brushing the head of his cock over Will’s lips, before pulling away again, much as Will had done to him not so very long ago. He groaned, and wished for friction, wished to just have the weight and heat of Hannibal in his mouth.

There and gone again, just enough to get a taste of him, until Will was all but whimpering. Taking pity on him, Hannibal curled a hand beneath his neck to help support the weight of his head, lifting him off of the bed while simultaneously pushing his way into Will’s mouth, past his teeth, a shallow penetration, nowhere near what Will wanted, felt he needed.

He pushed, trying to take more of Hannibal in his mouth, sucking greedily at what he was given, his tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. Finally, _finally_ Hannibal thrust deeply, again, and again, until Will could hardly breath, could only groan, and suck desperately and ache with wanting.

Hannibal let go of his wrists, and Will cried out in dismay, until Hannibal reached behind him to take Will’s cock in his hand. Then he just moaned happily around Hannibal, took the opportunity to touch him, the outsides of his thighs up and around to his ass, pulling him even deeper into his mouth, while he bobbed his head, and attempted to thrust into Hannibal’s fist.

With a soft growl of pleasure, Hannibal pushed Will back against the bed, sliding wetly from his mouth. He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped once he realized Hannibal had grabbed the lube, was squeezing some out into his palm before coating himself, slick fingers then teasing at Will.

He hardly needed any prepping at all, still pliant from earlier in the evening, and before he could do more than moan his name, Hannibal was inside him again, slowly, carefully sliding his way home. Will trembled around him, his entire body shaking with pleasure as Hannibal held his thighs, and began to fuck him.

It was worlds slower than the previous time, not only because Will was still sensitive, but because that was how Hannibal wanted to take him. Long, deep thrusts, no sense of urgency in the shifting of Hannibal’s hips, as he was content to simply take Will to pieces.

Will didn’t try to pick up the pace, simply rocked himself in time with Hannibal, pulling him down into a lazy kiss. That was even better, losing himself to sensation, his own cock rubbing against Hannibal’s stomach, sucking on his tongue, or at his lower lip, feeling that insistent, wonderfully full sensation.

He was like a live wire of pleasure, every bit of him sensitive, and crying out for Hannibal, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last like that. The need to touch himself was overwhelming, but he resisted, touching Hannibal instead, cupping his ass and pulling him deeper, squeezing and rocking around him as he gasped, and shuddered.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Hannibal ordered, even as he began to work his hips a little harder.

Will nodded, licked his lips, and held on as Hannibal pushed against the back of his thighs, and rocked his hips, the pace increasing, until Will’s breath was coming in sharp little pants timed to Hannibal’s thrusts. He squeezed down, made little noises of encouragement, but kept his hands above him, as if Hannibal was still pinning him to the bed. Then he could only hiss with pleasure, as Hannibal lost control, slamming into him again and again as he orgasmed.

Then Hannibal was between his legs, his mouth hot, and insistent, taking Will into the back of his throat, while he slipped two fingers back inside of him. Will groaned, grabbed the sides of Hannibal’s face, and fucked his mouth, eyes struggling to stay open so he could watch, could admire the hollowing of Hannibal’s cheeks as he sucked.

He could feel his thighs trembling, and slapped both hands over his own mouth when Hannibal began pressing against his prostate, and he felt himself begin to come, hips jerking, slamming himself on to Hannibal’s fingers, while Hannibal swallowed, and sucked at him gently.

When he came back to himself, Hannibal was there with a warm, wet washcloth, cleaning him gently, smiling down at Will.

“I feel like we’re making up for lost time,” Will murmured sleepily, his eyes already heavy, along with his limbs.

Hannibal turned off the light, and settled back down into the bed, turning Will on his side in order to curl around him. “Although painful, it was time well spent,” Hannibal murmured. “I wouldn’t change anything. Would you?”

And the odd thing was, Will wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, they're at it again. I can't pretend to be sorry. *evil laughter*


	21. A Rare Gift

Hannibal awoke with a start to the sound of his name being called, eyes flying open, seeking the expected warmth of Will beside him, finding nothing there at all. The blankets were pulled back on that side, the sheets and pillows holding the ghostly impression of the bed’s former occupant.

For the space of several heartbeats, he had the cruelest of doubts, suspecting he’d managed to dream the previous evening, the recent days, and weeks, and that when he found himself face to face with Will again it would be a return to cold, shuttered eyes. A body that turned from him, rather than folded against him, and if that was the case…

“Hannibal, get down here.”

The urgency in Will’s voice spurred him into action, causing Hannibal to set aside his doubts, and sleepy introspection. His eyes lingered on their bed for but a moment as he pulled on a robe, and made his way downstairs with haste.

Will was hovering near the bottom of the stairs, his attention diverted, but upon hearing Hannibal’s descent, he turned, his face lit up with joy, and excitement. Any lingering fears or doubts haunting Hannibal’s heart were scattered away by the sight.

“What is it?”

Will motioned for Hannibal to continue down the last few stairs, taking him by the hand as soon as they were close enough for him to do so. “Look.”

Hannibal did as was asked, and suddenly Will’s excitement, the urgency, made sense. He found himself laughing, Will’s fingers linked through his own, palms flush together, as they stood and watched Mischa crawling after the dogs, burbling with laughter as she used her chubby limbs to shuffle herself across the floor at an almost alarming pace.

“She’s crawling, Hannibal,” and Will sounded absolutely delighted, happy in a way Hannibal hardly recognized.

Certainly, there had been great moments of happiness shared between them during the earlier incarnation of their relationship, but those days—once thought of fondly, reverently—now seemed to pale in comparison to the life Hannibal found himself experiencing. There was an honesty that had been missing before, taking the place of the bittersweet notes they once shared.

“Well done, Mischa,” Hannibal said softly, and Will’s fingers tightened around his own. “We shall have to do some additional baby-proofing, I suspect.”

“Definitely.”

Hannibal was uncertain how long they stood there, watching Mischa play with the dogs, happiness settling almost uncomfortably into unfamiliar parts of himself. There was a triumph to the moment, a sort of satisfaction that he’d only ever experienced under very different circumstances, as he watched their daughter growing up right before his eyes.

“We’re really doing it, aren’t we?” Will asked, pulling Hannibal from his reverie.

Will was staring at him, a soft expression in his eyes, hair sticking up in places, in need of a shave, but he was beautiful in the moment, breathtakingly so. There was the familiar urge to consume and possess him, coupled with the desire to simply remain as he was, watching, admiring.

“We are,” he finally answered.

A smile spread across Will’s face, and he pulled Hannibal into a kiss, tender, but lacking the desire for follow through.

“I never would have chosen this,” Will admitted, turning to watch Mischa once again. “And now I can’t imagine living with it.”

Hannibal studied his features, seeing the ferocity of Will’s love right there in his eyes, in the determined set of his jaw. “I feel the same.”

“That goes for you, too,” Will added, throwing another smile in Hannibal’s direction.

Ah, and there was that peculiar sensation, the one Hannibal suspected he might never grow accustomed to, nor tire of experiencing. In imagining Will’s acceptance, Hannibal was willing to concede he had fallen far short of the mark. He felt he could be forgiven for underestimating the pleasure it produced, having never experienced such a thing in his lifetime.

Strange indeed.

A family.

In many ways, he felt as if his life had been folded backwards in upon itself, some part of the boy he was, the youth who lacked an awareness of the dark potential lurking within, had returned to take up residence in his heart.

It left him feeling oddly balanced.

Practical as he was, Hannibal knew what he was experiencing wouldn’t last forever. Again and again he would find himself yearning, desperate to create, and destroy. While some remnant of himself had been rekindled, there was no denying the purity of his true self, the beauty and wonder he had birthed with flesh, and blood.

Now, though, he could pull Will aside, confess without fear of rejection, something he suspected would be vital if he was to continue on with such an existence.

Will squeezed his hand once more before letting go, making his way over to Mischa with a smile on his face. Hannibal watched him sink to the floor, watched their daughter begin crawling her way over to Will, who scooped her up upon arrival, holding her high in the air before bringing her down to his chest for a hug.

“Get over here,” Will called, motioning for Hannibal to join them.

As Hannibal approached, Will lowered Mischa back to the ground so she could crawl to him in turn, his face bright, and happy to the extent it was almost rendered unfamiliar. Hannibal settled down, felt his face shifting to sport a smile to match Will’s own, as Mischa shuffled her way to him.

Hugging their daughter close before releasing her once again, Hannibal looked to Will, and allowed himself to enjoy his victory.

He had given Will a rare gift, and received one in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, so sweet it hurts my teeth~!! But this felt like the natural end for this chapter in Will and Hannibal's life.
> 
> This is not, however, the END end. I have another longer, case-centric, oh-shit-Hannibal-don't-fuck-up-now-centric arc I'd like to explore. I need to put together the outline for that beast before cracking, as we might find ourselves in another "Not To Die of The Truth" situation.
> 
> And, because I'm a pervert, and I love these two bastards together, there will likely be little one off PWPs that spring up while I'm working out the nitty gritty details of our next journey.
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL!!! You've been the most supportive, enthusiastic readers ever. I'm addicted to all of you, and will see you soon for more goodness!!!!


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